The Seductress
by AdelleG
Summary: How would the proper Mr. Darcy react if in place of Elizabeth Bennet, he met a charming, sensual, and quintessentially modern seductress?
1. Enter Miss Anastasia Sapin

Anastasia (Asya) Sapin had everything. The perfect family, the perfect resume, the perfect job, the perfect boyfriend.

Petite with a slender yet delightfully curvaceous figure, striking golden curls, and bright, intelligent hazel eyes, Asya would best be described as simply gorgeous, and never lacked for male attention. Intelligent, sharp, and witty, Asya graduated from the nation's top university to immediately join the trading floor of one of the most prestigious financial institutions. There, she immersed herself in stocks and numbers, enjoying the rush of adrenaline that came with the high-stake trades. There, she worked with her boyfriend. Her ridiculously, unbelievably perfect boyfriend. Asya wondered bemusedly every once in a while how such a man as her John could even exist. He adored Asya beyond all reason, pampered her at every opportunity, and complied with her every caprice. John comforted and encouraged Asya, praised her, supported her, loved her. John earned as much as Asya, and at home it was John who cleaned, cooked, baked, did the laundry. How did she ever find such a wonderful man?

Asya loved John too. Tenderly yet with a strong possessive flame. She happily basked in his attentions, and knew exactly how lucky she was. Yet for a reason that Asya could not decipher herself, she occasionally found herself in fanciful daydreams that did _not _include her perfect John. Passionate, crazy, sensual, and often tension-filled day-dreams about equally passionate, equally sensual, and equally charged tall, dark, and handsome strangers. The truth was, Asya realized ruefully, that her picture-perfect life was so terribly perfect that it was bordering on boring. No, no, don't take me wrong. Asya would never trade any aspect of her life for anything better. For there was no better: no better background, no better family, no better job, and certainly no better boyfriend. But she missed every once in a while the rush of emotions that accompany less perfect lives: the drama, the stress of uncertain or unrequited love; the novelty and interest of first dates; the sensations of power over an unaccepted admirer. The excitement of the trading floor largely compensated for the lack of stressful drama in her love life, but one nice, breezy evening out on the beach in Puerto Rico, Asya once again found herself daydreaming…

Bored at the seaside resort where she was vacationing with John for two weeks, Asya had just reread _Pride and Prejudice_. And now the tall, dark, and handsome stranger of her daydreams was none other than Mr. Darcy. Well, a slightly embellished, more passionate Mr. Darcy. Asya was a modern woman after all. Asya fixed her beautiful eyes on the equally lovely sunset, and inhaled deeply with pleasure, as she relived a variation of the Hunsford proposal.

A sudden shock overtook Asya's entire body, and she momentarily thought she would faint. Unable to see, and overwhelmed by an indescribable noise, Asya was sure she was about to lose consciousness. But instead, she found herself standing, barefoot in her flowing summer dress, with her purse across her right shoulder. But to her utter astonishment, Asya was not standing on the sunset-lit beach. Instead, she was at the entrance of what looked like a modest-sized mansion.

Just at that moment, the door flung right open, and a woman who appeared to be in her late twenties ran out, about to enclose Asya in a hug. "Anastasia!" She shouted, and stopped abruptly. The two women regarded each other with furrowed brows and deeply quizzical expressions.

Asya's mind was reeling. The woman before her perfectly fit the modest-sized mansion. She was dressed in Regency-style attire, and appeared to be very at ease with the odd (that is, strikingly un-modern) surroundings. Asia was further astounded that the woman knew her name. It appeared that her arrival had been expected.

Charlotte was equally confused. There stood, right in front of her house, her childhood friend aged by a decade yet still recognizable. But not only had Anastasia arrived without a carriage, but she was dressed in a most peculiar – and dare she say improper? – manner. Anastasia's luggage had been sent ahead by the girl's parents, and had been delivered the night before, and Charlotte had taken the liberty to ask her maid to unpack before her friend's arrival, seeking to ensure maximal comfort after Anastasia's long and undoubtedly tiring journey. Nothing in Anastasia's trunk had prepared her for such attire!

At last, Asya's keenly intelligent mind fully took in the situation before her. By all appearances, she was in Regency England (the woman had a decidedly non-American accept). That, of course, could not be. But Asya could not immediately come up with a plausible explanation for her present odd surroundings. Nothing made sense. Another person would have panicked in her place, but if Asya had learned one thing on the trading floor, it was to keep her calm. Though she still knew not what to make of things, Asya simply decided that the best course of action would be to act naturally, and to put this girl, who apparently thought herself her friend, as much at ease as possible. Asya also noted the other woman's terrified glance at her dress, and realized that her attire must be quite shocking.

Unaware of the woman's name, Asya simply smiled, and greeted warmly. "Oh, what a pleasure it is to see you!" There, that should do nicely: it gave no indication of how long they had been apart, nor of how well acquainted they were, and even concealed the fact that Asya knew not the woman's name.

Somewhat relaxing at her friend's friendly greeting, Charlotte managed a quiet "What happened to you, my dear?"

Understanding that the woman was referring to her dress, Asya pulled a tearful smile onto her face, and answered (taking note of the familiar "dear" used by her friend): "Oh dear, you would not want to hear it! For such a sordid tale has surely never been told." Dropping her head in a theatrical expression of grief, Asya continued her tale of being robbed by dreadful highwaymen. How terribly clichéd, she thought, mentally chastising herself for being unable to engineer a more original and credible story. Yet her friend seemed ready to believe her. "And so it is, that I am left with nothing but my undergarments. Luckily, they found nothing of value in my purse, so I could retain that as well," she added quickly, to account for the fact that her bag was suspiciously intact (and value there was certainly enough, Asya mused with amusement, recalling the numerous cards in her wallet).

"Oh God! My poor friend!" Charlotte exclaimed compassionately. She then thought for a moment, and asked curiously. "Is that really your undershirt? Do they wear such beautiful undergarments in Russia?" She regarded her friend's rich purple sundress with uncontrollable curiosity.

Asya simply nodded, hoping to keep the woman talking.

"Oh dear, you'll have to tell me all about Russia!" Charlotte chirped excitedly. "It's been so long since I saw you there. Ten years! Can you believe it? It's been ten years since we met and parted!" At this, she finally gave Asya the long-coming greeting embrace.

Asya was joyous at the new information. So she had met this woman ten years before in Russia, from where she had apparently just arrived. Good, at least she had some context for this odd encounter.

Coming to her senses, all color suddenly left Charlotte's face, as she said hurriedly. "Oh goodness, Anastasia, how uncouth of me! I am keeping you out here, in your undergarments, when you must be exhausted from your journey and that terrible accident. Pray forgive me, dear. It was only the excitement of our meeting that made me forget all hospitality."

At this, she received a forgiving smile from Asya, and ushered her guest into the house, quickly leading her into a guest room. "I think I best give you time to change and to rest before you meet Mama and Papa. I know you must be terribly tired."

With this, the woman warmly pressed Asya's hand, and left the room, calling for a maid to attend to her guest.

Once she was dressed in a fine blue muslin gown and the maid had put up her hair, Asya was restless to go back out. She still had no idea where she was or what was going on (reality TV would be her best bet, if she hadn't been on a Puerto Rican beach just minutes before – but perhaps that was part of the show?). But at least she was thoroughly amused, and her curiosity made her eager to go back to company. And so she told the maid that she would be happy to come out whenever the hosts were ready for her company. After the maid had left, she sat on her bed and listened carefully to the conversation outside her room.

"Miss Sapin would like to come out for supper, madam," She heard the maid say.

"Charlotte, should we call her now, or should we make her rest some more?" A female voice asked.

At this, she heard the woman who had greeted her answer pleasantly: "Anastasia was never one to be made to do things, Mama. Although I cannot understand how she is still standing and not dropping from fatigue, we should certainly let her do as she wishes. Please escort Miss Sapin to the sitting room, Anne," she must have addressed the maid.

Asya was in raptures. Charlotte! At least she knew her host's name!

A minute later, Anastasia was further gratified to see the maid return and tell her: "Sir and Lady Lucas and the two Misses Lucas are in the sitting room, ma'am. If you would like to join them, please let me take you there."

Good, now she knew her host's full name: Charlotte Lucas. Oh God, _Charlotte Lucas! _Apparently, this was not just any reality TV show, but a _Pride and Prejudice _reality TV show. Oh well, all the better. This could be so much fun!


	2. Enter Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy

Over the days that followed, Asya Sapin determined to learn as much as possible about her role, and to perform it with maximal proficiency. The first of these objects was facilitated considerably by the discovery, on Mr. Lucas's writing desk, of a letter seemingly from her father. Although reading a letter that was not addressed to her was presumptuous and rude, Asya simply could not resist the temptation to learn more about her new circumstances. Besides, this show was clearly designed for her, and the letter wasn't _really _private business, only a stage prop, she reasoned. And so she took the letter into her hand and read it hungrily.

_Dear Sir Lucas,_

_It has been a great many years since your family has graced us with your presence in Moscow. I have always looked back upon those days with pleasure, as have my wife and eldest daughter. In fact, my Anastasia has never forgotten the friend she had found in your lovely Charlotte, and I believe my daughter has quite treasured Charlotte's correspondence._

_I have recently discovered that Anastasia wishes to travel, and has a most fervent desire to see England. If you remember her from your trip, you would know that she is not one to be easily dissuaded. Not that I wish to dissuade her, by any means. She is an intelligent, sensible young woman with fierceness of character that makes me comfortably sure that she can well take care of herself. She is also three-and-twenty, and I am sure she is ready to see more of the world. With this, I have given her my blessing to commence her journey._

_Anastasia has expressed a desire to visit your family on her trip. I am sure she has mentioned this to Charlotte in her most recent letter. She would not wish to infringe on your hospitality, and would be ready to stay with you as much or as little as you wish. _

_She should be in Herefordshire within three months. With your approval, we shall send her things ahead of her._

_And one more thing, dear sir. Enclosed in this letter, please find Anastasia's own fortune of two thousand pounds. I did not wish to give it to her directly, for she does not yet know this, but I do: she will probably not come back to live with us here. She is a grown, independent woman, ready to make her own way. This should be enough to get her started. She will, of course, receive more upon my death. _

_Please feel free to deduct as much as needed to cover her expenditures while lodging with you, and convey the rest to her upon her departure from your home. You know I would trust you with anything._

_I hope you are well. It has been far too long since we have last conversed. But I remain:_

_Your affectionate friend,_

_Vladimir Sapin_

'_Well, that completes the show's setting'_, Asya thought. She now had a pretty clear idea of her circumstances: she was apparently a Russian aristocrat visiting Charlotte Lucas from _Pride and Prejudice_. _'Do I get to meet the irresistible Mr. Darcy?' _She wondered with a smile.

Asya, always a girl of action, immediately began adapting herself to the setting. She spent a good portion of her time in the library, reading and attempting to master the contemporary language and culture. She also stole stealthy glances at Charlotte as her friend was going about her needlework. It would be best to learn as many of the customary activities as possible.

So Anastasia was delighted when a new opportunity to learn the basics of being an 1800's English lady presented itself in the form of Charlotte's cheerful exclamation: "Asya! There will be an assembly in Meryton in three days! It would be the perfect opportunity for you to meet our neighbors."

Asya's eyes brightened instantaneously. Dancing! God, was she fond of it! Anastasia Sapin had been dancing for as long as she could remember, and competed quite seriously since the age of 13. Salsa, rumba, cha-cha, quickstep, waltz, foxtrot, jive, and tango: you name it; she could dance it. As in, national championship sort of dance it. There was absolutely no denying it: Asya Sapin was an _amazing _dancer.

But her joy was momentarily diminished as she realized that most of the dances she knew and loved probably did not exist in regency England. And so carefully, she asked: "What dances are popular here, Charlotte?"

"Oh, the usual: cotillion, reel, quadrille. And occasionally," here Charlotte had the grace to blush, "the _waltz_."

"Um, well, the waltz I can certainly do, but the others… I'm afraid you will have to teach me, my dear, "Asya replied almost sheepishly.

"You know the waltz but not the others?" Charlotte exclaimed in consternation. "But it is the most scandalous! I mean… it's a relatively new dance, so I was a bit surprised," she corrected herself immediately, tempering her outburst.

"We don't really dance the Scottish reel in Russia," Asya gave the first potentially plausible excuse that came to her mind.

Charlotte appeared to accept it readily. "Oh yes, of course. How silly of me. I will be glad to teach you."

That afternoon and the next, the girls spent cheerfully going through the common dances. Charlotte was amazed at Asya's easy and natural grace. Miss Sapin was an exceedingly able pupil, and had mastered the dances almost to perfection in no time at all.

Anastasia was absolutely delighted. She felt like she had adequately mastered the art of comporting herself as a Regency English lady, and was rightfully proud of her speedy progress. She now spoke perfect early 18th century English, was conscious of the contemporary etiquette, knew how to dance and embroider, and possessed the proper clothes (courtesy of her supposed Russian aristocrat father). She was also aware that she was in possession of some, albeit modest, means. But that money was at present in Mr. Lucas's custody, and would remain such until she chose to leave the Lucas Lodge. Besides, it was really not a terribly impressive amount – a mere two thousand, compared to Jane Austen's Mr. Darcy's ten thousand a year. And so, always the innovator, Asya resolved to increase her fortune by somewhat creative means. There was a little problem, however: she was a _woman _in Regency England, and women then and there did not do business. But that problem could be easily resolved by finding a tradesman to act on her behalf.

And so it was that the day before the Meryton Assembly found her at a store in town, talking conspiratorially with the shop owner over a single 20th century plain Bic pen.

She had a simple proposition for the tradesman: she would give him one innovative (nearly magical!) quill, which was made of an unknown material, seemingly lasted forever, and did not require ink. He would auction it off to a wealthy gentleman, and would give Asya 100 pounds from the profit. Any extras, he'd get to keep.

What Asya didn't tell the man was that she had another seven or eight such pens. But she wanted to get him to tell her how much the first one actually sold for before stating her conditions for the sale of the second. That plan was almost ruined when another such pen fell out of her purse and onto the floor, but fortunately the only person who noticed was a tall, dark gentleman who stood next to her and observed her intently but inconspicuously.

Having completed her business arrangement, Asya cheerfully headed back out of the store.

But as soon as she turned around, she bumped straight into a tall, gorgeous gentleman. Asya smiled as her eyes brushed over his broad shoulders, his dark curls, and his large, intent, mesmerizing green eyes.

Regaining her composure, Asya curtsied politely to the handsome stranger. But instead of bowing back to her, the man lifted his chin slightly in a proud gesture, his face freezing into a stern and disapproving mask, and abruptly turned away.

What insolence, what incivility! Asya may not have been the expert on Regency manners, but it was plain as day that she had just been _cut _by that gentleman. All her admiration for his fine figure evaporated as soon as it came. She had known plenty of jerks in New York City, but none of them had ever slighted _her_. No, men were generally awfully pleasant with her, and she knew exactly why: Asya was fully aware of her own beauty and the effect she generally had on men. Yet this man seemed to be almost repulsed by her! It was clear that he held her in absolutely no regard, and considered himself far above her. Who was he to cast such a judgment on someone with whom he had no acquaintance whatsoever? He clearly had no manners, and from his resilience to her natural good looks, Asya easily surmised that he had absolutely no taste either. With a light shrug, she pulled the smile back onto her pretty face and left the store. The man was clearly not worth her notice.

At the same time, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, currently visiting Mr. Charles Bingley Netherfield Park, was walking hurriedly away from the same shop. To say that he was perturbed would be an understatement; he was positively agitated, yet he was not quite sure why.

To be sure, the entire day had been unpleasant. That morning, his good friend Charles informed him quite unequivocally that they were going to attend an assembly at Meryton that very evening. In vain had Darcy struggled; his friend would not be repressed. Yet Fitzwilliam was by no means looking forward to the assembly: he was shy to a fault, and, backed up by his wealth and impressive estate, had transformed that shyness into defensive pride. He would not wish to dance in such company as that afforded by Meryton.

So he had entered the quaint little shop in a foul mood. He attempted fruitlessly to distract himself with various trinkets, but eventually his interest was captured by a stunning young lady who entered the shop and headed determinedly towards the shopkeeper.

Darcy was not prone to eavesdropping, yet this time he absolutely could not resist. He felt drawn towards the unknown lady, but was too shy and uncertain to approach her directly. And so in order to come closer to speaking to her himself, he began by listening in to her conversation with the shopkeeper. Great was his amazement when he learned that the lady had come to discuss _business _of all things! Greater still was his utter surprise when he noticed the skill with which she was conducting said business. She was attempting to sell a very curious item for an extraordinarily high price, and Darcy had to admit that her marketing of the item was flawless. The little exhibition of the writing utensil's amazing merits, which she eagerly conducted for the shopkeeper, was quite convincing. And a second identical pen, which fell out of the lady's small purse, did not escape Darcy's notice. Why did she not sell that one too, he wondered for a moment. And then it dawned upon him: she was selling only one object at a time, in order to extract from the shopkeeper the true price! What a clever little minx, by Jove!

Before long, Darcy found himself marveling inwardly at the lady's pleasant intelligence. His mood had lightened considerably. And then he chastised himself: what did he find so pleasant in this young woman? How could he possibly look at her twice? True, she was clearly clever, and well versed in the world of business, but that was a fault, not a virtue. She was a _lady_ for God's sake, so what on earth was she doing talking about _business _with a _man_? Such impropriety he had never seen before! No, this… this _girl_… was certainly not a lady. A common country lass, a little more cunning than others, perhaps. And with that, he haughtily dismissed her.

It was at that point that his ostensible and unpardonable slight of Anastasia Sapin occurred. She passed by him and gave an elegant curtsy; he did not bow, did not even nod, instead only raising his head higher in a proud gesture of dismissal. She was not worth his notice. She was improper to a fault.

Yet as he walked away from the shop in a frantic hurry, he could not help but recall her brilliant blue eyes, sparkling golden hair, and the enchanting grace with which she dropped her curtsy. Completely involuntarily, he imagined her graceful, elegant figure on the dance floor, and even though he did acknowledge it consciously, the thought of that evening's assembly was for some reason no longer unpleasant.


	3. The Meryton Assembly

On the whole, Asya was very pleased with the way her pen-selling business had gone. So upon her return to the Lucas Lodge, she merrily took to preparing for that evening's assembly. This was the first time she would meet the neighborhood gentry, so Asya took special care in her attire. She chose one of the most resplendent gowns in her trunk – a dark blue velvet dress that perfectly accentuated her golden curls – and had her hair done by Charlotte's maid.

Charlotte let out a light gasp when she entered her friend's room and beheld the vision within it. Asya was truly the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, and Charlotte remarked with satisfaction that she felt more pride than envy. Theirs was a true friendship.

"Oh my, Anastasia, you are absolutely gorgeous, my dear!"

Asya gave her a brilliant smile. "You are lovely yourself, Charlotte, darling. Shall we go?"

The two girls descended to the sitting room, where Sir and Lady Lucas were already awaiting them. Following some more pleasantries and compliments, the entire group departed for Meryton.

Once at the assembly, Asya immediately commandeered the attentions of most gentlemen in the room. She had hardly had time to look around before she had the first three dances lined up. Conscious of the local etiquette, she obliged everyone, and tirelessly danced every dance. She loved dancing, to be sure, but she did not find particular pleasure in her present partners: most of them were vain and dull, and they predominantly consisted of the militia.

Only in the brief intervals between the dances was she able to do what she was especially curious to do that night – properly meet her neighbors. It was at one such time, that Sir Lucas took her to meet the Bennet family. Asya's eyes immediately lit up at the mention of that name: this was, after all, the central family of _Pride and Prejudice_, and consequently of this entire show.

"Mrs. Bennet, allow my to introduce to you and to your lovely daughters Charlotte's dear friend from Russia. Miss Anastasia Sapin." Here Asya gave a gracious curtsy. "Asya, it is my pleasure to introduce you to our friends and neighbors: Mrs. Bennet, Miss Jane Bennet, and Miss Mary Bennet."

"My two youngest are dancing at present," Mrs. Bennet's shrill voice added, and she pointed out two girls. "Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty over there."

"What about Elizabeth?" Asya could not help but ask.

Her companions simply furrowed their brows and remained unable to give her an answer. "I was under the impression that you had a daughter named Elizabeth, Mrs. Bennet," Asya clarified.

The elder woman shook her head. "No, I do not. I don't know who gave you such a peculiar impression."

"You must be misremembering, Asya," Charlotte hurried to correct the misunderstanding. "Mrs. Bennet's four daughters are Jane, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia."

Following Charlotte's clarification, the group exchanged polite curtsies, and dispersed.

Asya was stunned. Apparently, this version of _Pride and Prejudice _lacked the main protagonist: Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Immediately, she understood that it could mean one thing: she was here to take Lizzy's place. Asya smiled. _'So then I'm intended for the handsome Mr. Darcy. How extraordinarily exciting! I wonder if I shall see him at tonight's assembly.'_

Several dances later, Anastasia was perplexed to note an extended pause in the music, as the entire gathered company turned towards the entrance. Leaning in closer to her friend, Charlotte explained:

"Mr. Bingley has just arrived with his party of guests."

Immediately, Asya partook in the others' excitement, and began feverishly searching for the renowned Mr. Bingley, and with him – the even more prominent Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.

As the crowd parted to make way for the new comers, Asya first noticed a medium-height, incredibly handsome and cheerful-looking gentleman. That must be Mr. Bingley. To his right was a short, disgruntled woman with a chubby, bored-looking man. Mr. and Mrs. Hurst, Asya identified at once. She then turned to the couple on Mr. Bingley's left with simultaneous excitement and apprehension. Now she would finally see _him_!

Great was her displeasure when the grand Mr. Darcy turned out to be none other than the tall, dark, and undeniably handsome jerk from the shop. Asya's pretty face turned into a scowl, and as her quick glance passed his eyes, she noticed that he was looking, very intently, straight back at her. She moved her eyes immediately, and rested them instead on what must have been Miss Bingley. Tall, skinny woman clearly overdressed for the occasion. Yep, definitely Miss Bingley: there could be no other.

Having discovered Mr. Darcy's identity, Asya lost all interest in the newly entered party, and did not listen to Charlotte and Lady Lucas gush on about the newcomers. Certainly, Asya Sapin was a rational creature, and she understood everything: Mr. Darcy had offended her earlier that day _on purpose_. It was all part of the plan, part of the show. Just as in the original _Pride and Prejudice _he managed to slight Elizabeth Bennet at their first meeting, so too in this version, he slighted _her_, Asya, the one who took Miss Bennet's place. Clearly, as the show went on, he was meant to redeem himself, and she was meant to see all his good qualities, and they were meant to fall in love and get their happily ever after. And to be honest, she had always found the storyline of _Pride and Prejudice _to be incredibly romantic; she had always considered Elizabeth Bennet to be a lucky girl, and had never assigned much importance to Mr. Darcy's initial gaffes, focusing instead on his later-revealed goodness. But now that she had been offended by the man firsthand, she could not ignore his rudeness and arrogance. She may have day-dreamed about him, but she now realized that in real life, Fitzwilliam Darcy was not the man for Anastasia Sapin. With a sad smile, she accepted some young man's invitation and began to dance just as the music finally resumed.

From the opposite side of the hall, two pairs of eyes followed her hungrily, entranced by her graceful movement.

"An angel, truly an angel! Have you ever seen such beauty, such grace, Darcy?" Charles Bingley's voice brought Fitzwilliam Darcy out of his reverie.

A light blush tinted Darcy's cheeks as he realized that Charles must have been admiring the same woman. And indeed, who could not admire her? She was by far the best dancer he had ever seen, and he had been to much more fine balls than this one: London, Paris, Vienna had not a single girl who danced as well as this golden-haired county lass. But how? Where could she possibly have learned such grace, such posture? He had witnessed her unladylike antics earlier that day, and could not believe that such strange, coarse manners as conducting business with tradesmen could be concealed behind such impeccably ladylike exterior. She was clearly sly and dangerous, but also enchanting. Oh, so very enchanting!

"Darcy, are you alright?" Charles asked, realizing that his friend had not said a word since entering the assembly.

"Yes, quite," Mr. Darcy answered curtly.

It was at that time that the music came to a halt, and Charles exclaimed: "Well, we shall not stand here all alone! Come, let us seek introductions. I see Sir Lucas over there: we must greet him."

He tugged lightly on his friend's sleeve, and Darcy followed him wordlessly.

They greeted Sir Lucas politely, to which he replied rather warmly, and offered to introduce them to his family. Charles agreed immediately. Fitzwilliam remained silent, his eyes still trained on the golden-haired goddess, who was smiling a most mesmerizing smile at a young woman with whom she seemed engaged in a genial conversation.

'_Those golden curls – so soft, so perfectly formed, so tantalizing. What would it feel like to hold them in my hand, to run my fingers through them?' _Fitzwilliam frowned as he caught himself thinking that way. _'No, it is all of no import. She is nothing.'_

Sir Lucas was leading them somewhere, chatting energetically with Charles.

'_And yet that is not true: she is certainly _something_. So different from all the other ladies I have met. So strange, so unusual, so frustrating – so _difficult._'_

Sir Lucas brought them closer to the golden-haired beauty.

'The line of her jaw, the curve of her neck, her sumptuous chest... Oh God, how can she affect me so?'

Sir Lucas came to a halt. Right next to her, of all people!

_'How could I have failed to notice her eyes? There is surely nothing more dazzling, more brilliant! She is looking at me… frowning… why do I miss her smile? Wait, why am I here? Why am I so close to her, to this vixen whom I should not pay any attention to and yet who captivates me in such a shameful way? Why can't I pull my eyes away from her? Where is my dignity? I know what women want from me, and I despise all of their devices, arts, and allurements! How can I forget all that, how can I allow myself to feel even for just a moment this shameful desire to extend my hand and touch this woman's brilliant skin?'_

"Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy, it is my great pleasure to introduce you to my wife, Lady Lucas." A curtsy from a fairly pleasant but dressed in somewhat ill-taste elderly lady. "And this is my elder daughter, Miss Charlotte Lucas." Here the young lady who had been speaking with the golden-haired beauty gave a polite curtsy. "And this is Charlotte's dear friend, Miss Anastasia Sapin, who is visiting us from Russia."

Fitzwilliam's eyes were now fixed on her again; the momentary reprieve he had received during the introduction of the Lucases had done nothing to assuage his unexpected, troubling desires. His confusion at his own feelings was now increased by perplexity at what he had just heard: the woman was visiting from Russia. Yet he had heard her conversation earlier that day, and this Miss Sapin had anything but a Russian accent; he would certainly know, having met his fair share of Russian aristocracy in court, both in England and abroad. True, the lady before him did have a slight foreign accent, yet he could not quite place it. But her English was flawless: she had none of those halts and stammering of a foreigner searching for words. So how was it that her hosts introduced her as a visitor from Russia? There was something clearly amiss. The minx was hiding something, and he would do all it took to get to the bottom of it.

In the meantime, Miss Sapin fixed her gaze firmly on Fitzwilliam's friend, her lips curling up into a dazzling smile, and she lowered herself into the most graceful, elegant curtsy.

"Mr. Bingley, it is my pleasure." Fitzwilliam then noted through his daze that he had never seen Charles so struck, so captivated. With a most idiotic grin on his face, Mr. Bingley bowed to the enchantress before him, and brought her hand eagerly to his lips.

She then turned to Fitzwilliam, and he was appalled to notice the flutter in his stomach that resulted from the mere thought of having her notice. But no smile; her eyes were cold. The curtsy equally unfriendly. "Mr. Darcy," she acknowledged curtly. No expression of pleasure at all.

His bow was equally frosty; as slight as politeness would allow. And yet, instead of rejoicing that his dislike for her was apparently mutual, he was feeling cold and almost sick.

Completely oblivious to his friend's distress, Charles Bingley cheerfully asked the vision before him for the next day. She obliged with such grace and pleasure, that he was already convinced that he had fallen in love.

Some half an hour later, there was a brief intermission in the music, and Charles Bingley decided that it was not altogether fair that he was having the best evening in his life while his friend was sulking in the corner. And so he allowed some eager young man take Miss Sapin's attention and bring her a drink, while he approached Fitzwilliam.

"Come Darcy, as soon as the music resumes, I must have you dance!"

After a momentary silence, Darcy replied bitterly: "There is not a woman in this room with whom it would not be a punishment for me to stand up."

Charles was incredulous. "What? You are kidding, surely! For you would have to be blind, Darcy, not to notice Miss Sapin's extraordinary beauty!"

Darcy could not suppress the groan that escaped his throat at the mention of that name. Here he was, withdrawn as far from the dancing floor as he could possibly be, in his desperate attempts not to notice her, not to watch her constantly. He had only just managed to lose her from his sight, and this man who called himself his friend had to come and ruin it! Gathering himself, he replied slowly, loudly, and deliberately. "She is very pretty, I grant you. But that is not enough to tempt me."

Charles was momentarily silent, as he was marveling at his friend's stupid fastidiousness. "Very well, you do not have to dance with Miss Sapin. I would not let you even if you wish; she is an angel!" He at last said good-naturedly. "But you must not be so dull. Miss Sapin's friend, Miss Charlotte Lucas, is quite pretty too."

Darcy was growing increasingly annoyed. Why couldn't Charles leave him alone? "She is tolerable, I suppose," he answered resentfully, "but not handsome enough. Besides, I am in no humor to give consequence to girls who have been slighted by other men. And as to you, Charles, I would like to warn you about Miss Sapin. She is not what she seems. You may think her a lady, an angel, or whatever you say, but she is quite unfit."

"What do you mean to say by that, Darcy?" At such blatant insults to his favorite, Charles suddenly lost his temper.

"Look, Charles, I do not mean to interfere, but earlier today I witnessed her engage in most unladylike behavior. She was discussing business – attempting to sell an item – with a tradesman in a shop." Here he stopped, letting the weight of his words impress upon his friend.

That did not happen. Instead, Charles broke into a fit of laughter. "And that is all? That is how she merited your censure?"

Fitzwilliam was taken aback, and immediately tried to defend his position. "There are other things too. She is visiting from Russia, yet she does not speak with a Russian accent. It is all very strange, Charles; she is not what she seems, I'm afraid. Look, I am merely giving advice: stay away from Miss Sapin."

Charles merely waved his hand in a dismissive manner, resolving that there was not way to bring his friend out of his present bad humor, and went in search of Miss Sapin to secure another dance with her. She was already engaged, however, so he recalled what common courtesy demanded of him, and asked for Charlotte Lucas.

While twirling in the arms of yet another stranger, Miss Anastasia Sapin reflected on what she had just chanced to overhear. She had not been paying much attention to Mr. Danny as he brought her a glass of wine and chattered amicably about nothing important. So when she heard Mr. Bingley's and Mr. Darcy's voices nearby, she inadvertently listened in. And how she wished she hadn't! For now, her mood was decidedly ruined. What hateful, vile man! How dare he speak so discourteously about Charlotte, and how dare he cast such prejudiced, unqualified judgment regarding herself! And what a sexist! No, she did not care if she was in Elizabeth Bennet's place. There was absolutely no way in hell she could ever fall for a man who thought that doing business was "unladylike behavior". Miss Anastasia Sapin abhorred Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Mr. Bingley was able to secure Miss Sapin's hand for one last dance – a waltz. From his corner in the shadows, Mr. Darcy observed this dance with rapt fascination. He had noticed Miss Sapin's superior dancing skills before, but even in all her grace and lightness, she had not been flawless. There was occasional hesitation, even one or two almost-missed steps, in her reel and her cotillion. But her waltz, oh God, her waltz! He had never beheld anything so sensual, so effortless, so perfect! The way she positively melted in his friend's arms, the way she conformed so smoothly to his every step, and followed so flawlessly his lead. She danced impeccably with grace, and seemed to give herself fully to the dance. It was as if she had been born to dance. And he – to watch her do so.

How he wished in that moment to be in Charles Bingley's place! How much he craved the soft touch of her skin as she rested against him, using him for mutual support throughout the dance. How he yearned to hold her, to have her melt in _his_ arms, not in his friend's. Her body while dancing was by far the most arousing sight he had ever beheld, and his face reddened in shame as he noticed the effect she was producing on him.

Desperate to escape as soon as possible her enchanting presence, he approached Charles as soon as the music stopped. With great effort, he managed not to cast a single furtive glance at Miss Sapin as he unceremoniously stole her partner. It was enough that he had just spent an entire dance hiding awkwardly in the shadows with an embarrassing bulge in his breeches. He could not trust himself to even look at her again.

Mr. Bingley's party hastily took its leave – Charles saying his goodbyes and apologizing profusely for their early departure, Caroline hanging herself on Mr. Darcy's arm and gushing on about the inadequacies of the present society, and Fitzwilliam Darcy himself heading determinedly for the exit. Once in the carriage on the way back to Netherfield, Charles Bingley addressed his friend:

"By Jove, what is wrong with you, Darcy?" He was nearly shouting. "Everyone was having a wonderful evening, and you insisted on sulking the whole time, and then just dragged us right out! If you can't learn to enjoy yourself – fine, be that way, I don't care. But don't spoil it for everyone else!"

Instead of responding, Darcy huffed and brusquely turned his back to his friend. He was filled with acid revulsion towards Mr. Bingley, and could not stomach even to look at him at that moment. He had always felt warm, almost brotherly affection towards Charles. Yet now, he could not help but feel dark, bitter jealousy towards his friend. The image of Miss Sapin's perfect body melting gracefully into Mr. Bingley's arms was still fresh in his mind.


	4. Party at the Lucas Lodge

Several days passed in relative tranquility. The Lucases dined at Netherfield once, and reciprocated the invitation another time. Asya did not enjoy either visit: Mr. Darcy positively annoyed her with his alternative staring and abrupt withdrawals from her presence, while Mr. Bingley's attentions were beginning to bore her.

And so when the Lucases invited the inhabitants of Netherfield Park along with several other neighboring families and some of the nearby-stationed militia for an evening at the Lucas Lodge, Asya did not entirely look forward to the occasion. While Mr. Bingley's attentions had been welcome at the Meryton assembly, she had grown tired of them as she felt no particular regard towards him, and his pleasant, cheerful manner was so reminiscent of her dear John, that it made her melancholy and wistful, wishing to be out of this stupid show and back with her perfect boyfriend in her perfect life.

So she was rather unamused, when an hour before the guests were scheduled to arrive, Charlotte came into her room with a serious, conspiratorial look on her face, and inquired regarding her feelings towards Mr. Bingley.

"Oh, he is very agreeable," Asya answered noncommittally.

"He seems quite taken with you," Charlotte pointed out seriously.

"Indeed, I suppose he is," Asya shrugged.

"I am very happy for you, Asya. He is gentle and pleasant; he is rich and well-connected. You would do well to secure him. I suggest you pay him extra attention this evening. It is always better to show more than you feel rather than less. I know the two of you have a very short acquaintance, but if I am not mistaken, he is quite on his way to falling in love with you, and if he continues to act as he had done at the assembly, then a little encouragement from you may lead him to begin a formal courtship."

"And if I have no wish to marry Mr. Bingley?" Asya asked with a sweet smile.

Charlotte beheld her in wonder. "Whyever would you not?"

Asya shrugged. "It's quite simple. I don't love him."

"But surely, you enjoy his company well enough. Love is not necessary to enter a marriage; it can grow and flourish afterwards. Indeed, it would be very imprudent to wait to fall in love while throwing away perfectly good prospects."

Asya laughed. "And who said that I was prudent, Charlotte?"

Her friend just shook her head in disapproval.

Asya took Charlotte's hands in hers, and smiled with affection at her friend. "I am sorry, Charlotte, I should not have made fun of the situation. But you must understand that it is just the way I am: only the deepest love could ever induce _me_ into matrimony."

Charlotte thought for a moment, before pointing out: "But you have been accepting Mr. Bingley's attentions with pleasure, it seemed. If you truly intend to reject him, then perhaps you should not give him false hope."

Anastasia's face clouded as she considered the veracity of her friend's words. "You are very right, Charlotte. I will make sure not to lead Mr. Bingley on. He is a good man, and deserves better than to be disappointed."

The two friends then exchanged hugs, and returned to their toilette. Some half an hour later they were downstairs awaiting their guests.

The guests soon began to arrive, and the evening progressed pleasantly. Before Mr. Bingley came in and commandeered her attention, Asya was able to engage in a pleasant conversation with Jane and Mary Bennet. She was glad to get to know these girls a little better, as she found both of them exceedingly agreeable, even if a little shy and quiet. Asya recalled that Mary was a somewhat daft and vain character in the original version of Pride and Prejudice. Yet she saw none of that in the girl she met. Perhaps the lack of Elizabeth led Jane and Mary to become much closer, which in turn made Mary feel less alone and neglected. The influence of sensible Jane Bennet upon Mary was undeniably positive. It seemed that they were the two sensible daughters of the household, but their sweet, compliant dispositions were entirely overshadowed by the younger two girls' boisterous silliness.

And Kitty and Lydia Bennet were certainly silly. Asya could not help but be amused at their ridiculous antics. This evening, too, they had not failed to showcase their absurdity. When Mary was asked by Sir Lucas to entertain the guests with a performance at the pianoforte, Lydia had scarcely allowed her to play a single number before demanding rather rudely that her sister play a dance. Not wishing to make a scene, and seeing her mother side with her silly younger sister, Mary could do nothing but oblige. Kitty and Lydia each dragged an officer to engage in the dance, and several other couples of young people followed.

Asya regarded the entire scene with undisguised amusement. Others' absurdity often made her laugh, and she was presently quite enjoying herself at the Bennets' expense. Yet seeing the pained expression on Jane Bennet's face curbed her delight. Determined to put the sweet girl at ease, Asya walked across the room towards Jane.

Yet just as she was passing Sir Lucas, the gentleman was having a rather one-sided conversation with Mr. Darcy regarding the advantages of dancing as an adornment of every polished society. Noticing his beautiful houseguest approach them, he addressed her thus:

"My dear Anastasia, why are you not dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You cannot object to dancing, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you." He then took Asya's hand, and was about to pass it to Mr. Darcy, when she withdrew it abruptly.

"Indeed, sir, I beg you pardon, but I am not inclined to dance. You would be misunderstanding me if you thought that I came this way to beg for a partner." She gave a curt curtsey, lifted her chin, and was about to walk away, when Mr. Darcy spoke to her in a voice filled with some constricted emotion.

"Indeed, Miss Sapin, I am sure you would never need to beg for a partner. If is I who should be begging you to do me the great honor of giving me the next dance." He bowed gallantly and extended his hand, a soft, awkward smile gracing his lips.

As soon as Mr. Darcy had uttered those words, he marveled at his own stupidity. What had overcome him? He was shocked; shocked, appalled. Never before had he spoken to a young lady so freely and brazenly. It was quite unlike him to speak in such a flirtatious manner. Yet he found he could not help himself. The mere sight of Miss Sapin excited him beyond anything he had previously experienced. Those past few days had been absolute torture: every time he dined with her, he was torn between staring at her unabashedly, smoldering her with his admiring gaze, and running out of the room in frustration, away from this tempting seductress who was clearly not good for him. On the other hand, every moment spent away from her company was equally painful; he craved the sight of her golden curls, the great pleasure of seeing her dazzling smiles, and the unearthly privilege of hearing her brilliant laughter. And the thought of her dancing immediately brought back the memories of the tantalizing waltz she had shared with his friend, and with it – a full array of emotions: desire, jealousy, embarrassment, hurt. He felt deeply conflicted about everything concerning Miss Sapin, including his own feelings towards the lady. Yet one thing was clear: never in a million years could he resist the chance to press her enticing body against his in a sensual dance. And given that, how could he _not_ beg her for a dance?

Anastasia paused for a moment, studying Mr. Darcy with a curious half-smile. What was this man about? He had slighted and slandered her before, yet now he appeared to be sincerely asking her to dance. She did consider briefly that he was merely mocking her, seeking to expose her ill manners when she would consent to dance in such a setting. Yet the light, terribly appealing – shy and almost boyish – blush on his cheeks as he asked her to dance belied that supposition. No, he was certainly asking her in earnest. But why?

Regardless, there was no way Asya would ever accept a dance invitation from that man. She was a fairly kind person in general, but if she had to name a fault in her own character, it would be resentfulness. She did not forgive easily; and her good opinion once lost was usually lost forever.

So she replied in a sardonic tone that belied the saccharine mocking smile on her lips: "You are all politeness, Mr. Darcy. But truly, do not make yourself uncomfortable on my behalf. While your invitation is much appreciated, I really do not wish to dance."

And then, making sure that Sir Lucas had already stepped away to entertain his other guests, she leaned slightly closer to Mr. Darcy, and added in a whisper: "Sir, I understand your desire to keep me away from your friend. But really, isn't asking me to dance a rather drastic measure? I am sure you can save your dear Mr. Bingley from the dangerous Miss Sapin without sacrificing yourself." With that, she continued on her way to Jane Bennet.

Mr. Darcy was so overwhelmed by Asya's proximity that he at first failed to hear her last words. All he could concentrate on was her light breezing as it caressed his cheek, and her intoxicating scent as it assaulted his nostrils. Her essence so close to him, her body nearly pressed against his, left him panting and baffled. He could not think; he could not speak; he could not act. Her power over him was overwhelming to an alarming degree.

Only when she was sufficiently removed from his body and he was able to get his physical reaction under control, did he reflect on what she had said. From her bitter teasing it was clear that she had overheard his conversation with Charles at the assembly. That realization left him cold and mortified. _'What must she think of me now? Oh God, why do I care so much?'_

Asya, meanwhile, was soon approached by Mr. Bingley, who immediately asked her to dance. She was about to accept, realizing the slight that would cause to his friend, Mr. Darcy (after all, it was most discourteous to refuse one man only to then accept another). But she recalled in time her determination not to give Bingley any encouragement, and refused politely. For the remainder of the evening, she attempted to chat with as many different neighbors as possible, not giving preference to anyone's conversation, except maybe Charlotte's, Jane's, and Mary's. This time, she made absolutely sure not to show any particular favor towards Mr. Bingley, and hoped that he would get the hint that she was not seriously interested in a romantic relationship with the man.

Yet it seemed that the damage had already been done, and when the Netherfield party took their leave, Mr. Bingley took her hand tenderly in his, and said in a low voice:

"Thank you, Miss Sapin, for another beautiful evening. You have no idea how happy I am each day that I am honored with your company. I hope you will allow me to call on you again tomorrow?"

Somewhat stunned, Asya could do nothing but nod hesitantly.

"I am truly grateful, Miss Sapin," he said with a wide smile, and lifted her hand gallantly to his lips.

As he was doing so, Asya's eyes chanced to drift behind his form and land on his friend's tall frame. She nearly shuddered at the expression in Mr. Darcy's eyes. He was piercing her and Mr. Bingley with the most intense look she had ever seen. It was unclear what emotion was hidden behind his large brown eyes – was it rage, disdain, jealousy, passion? But whatever it was, it was so overwhelming, that Asya tremblingly withdrew her hand from Mr. Bingley's hold, turned around, and nearly ran back to the sitting room.

Later that night, she reflected on the soiree with dissatisfaction. Clearly, she had not succeeded in her attempts to discourage Mr. Bingley's attentions. Yet how she could make her disinterest any more prominent without being discourteous, she knew not. Perhaps, she realized with disappointment and self-reproach, she had allowed things to get too far with him. Yes, it seemed that Mr. Bingley was too far along on his way to falling in love with her, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it now. Asya sighed sadly, and resigned to her mistake, she went to bed.

In a different estate only a few miles away, a man was preparing for bed in an even more perturbed state than Asya. He was experiencing sensations he had never felt before, and he was not altogether sure whether he liked or resented it. On the one hand, he was deeply, truly disappointed in himself: almost disgusted. How could he, the Master of Pemberley, feel so strongly towards some strange, mysterious even, girl he had met only a week before in a small town in Herefordshire? How could he, who had been so successful in reigning in his emotions and desires for twenty-eight years, now become so discomfited by a single woman?

And yet, the perturbations he was now feeling were also incredibly pleasant. Torturous, but pleasant. He could not touch her, and it was agony. But he could dream about her – and that was bliss.

It was with a wistful, longing sigh that he at last got into bed. And he dreamed that night of the same beautiful golden-haired goddess that had invaded his dreams now for seven nights in a row. Anastasia Sapin. _Asya,_ he called her in those dreams, just as he had overheard Charlotte call her at dinner. _Asya with stunning golden curls that felt like velvet against his awkward fingers as he caressed her hair so softly, so gently, almost fearfully, with infinite reverence. Asya with those endless blue eyes, as she looked at him through her thick, long eyelashes, and erupted in that dazzling laughter – _just like a waterfall, he mentally noted _– at his awkwardness. Asya in only a light satin nightshirt, like the ones he had seen his sister wear, her sumptuous curves outlined so tantalizingly. He would run his hands hesitantly along those curves, then, gathering courage, he would explore her further with his inexperienced lips. Asya with that incredible grace, whether it was in a waltz or in his bed, in his eager arms. Asya somehow managed to inspire in him the most sensual, the most pleasurable dreams he had had in years, or in his entire life perhaps… Asya._


	5. A Pair of Fine Feet

Fitzwilliam Darcy awoke in the morning with a frustrated grunt. It seemed that every subsequent encounter with Miss Sapin only fueled his desire further, making his dreams of her more vivid, more brilliant, more infuriatingly arousing. So the dream that night had been positively erotic. And not for the first time in the past week, Darcy awoke to a sticky sensation in the sheets around his groin, and immediately understood his unfortunate condition with infinite embarrassment.

To say that he felt ashamed of himself would be an understatement. He was disgusted, positively mortified. How could he, who had always had such admirable control over himself, who always paid such close attention to behaving in a way that behooved a gentleman of his standing, be now reduced to such a shameful state? And over what, over whom? Over some country lass with no manners, no connections, and undeniable no wealth either. How could he let her affect him so much, to the point where he would wake up in his own wasted seed, panting from the erotic dreams of her. Disgusting! Unbearable! He was behaving as an uncultured, undisciplined youth, not as the Master of Pemberley!

Fueled by his frustration, Darcy dressed in a hurry and nearly ran out of Netherfield Park. He needed something, anything, to clear his mind. A ride would do nicely. He swiftly saddled his horse and rode off in a fury.

The air was fresh and crisp. It was still early morning, no later than eight. Far too early for any of the neighboring aristocracy to be out of doors, so he enjoyed his ride through the empty landscape, with not a soul to be seen or to disturb him.

Until, that is, he spotted a light, small figure – that of a lady, without a doubt – not too far from himself. He was of a mind to turn around immediately, and continue his ride in solitude, allowing this other person to also proceed undisturbed. But he was overtaken by curiosity. Who would be out so early, and so far out in the woods, on foot? Even more, he felt a strong pull towards the graceful creature when he thought he noticed her skipping lightly up and down as she walked, with such grace and charm.

If he were honest with himself, he would have to admit that he knew exactly who this lady was. For there was not another person in Herefordshire who could walk with such effortless grace, nor captivate him so fully. But he pretended that he was still too far to be able to tell who she was. Otherwise, the fact that he was riding so determinedly in her direction after cursing her only moments ago for reducing him to his present state of pining would be utterly mortifying.

Of course, sooner or later her beautiful face had to be fully discernible, and he could no longer pretend. But even then, he could not bring himself to turn around. Jumping off his horse and tying him hastily to the nearest tree, he walked up to the lady, and greeted:

"Good morning, Miss Sapin."

His words came out constricted and forced. It was the only way he knew how to say them without giving way to all the raging emotion within his chest and attacking her with his treacherous body. But he winced when he realized that to Miss Sapin it must have sounded as if he was snubbing her yet again. He had never done too well with greeting her, and it pained him to see the dismissive, haughty curtsy she dropped him now. But perhaps it's for the best, he reminded himself sternly, there is no reason to be friends with her. She is not good for me, and hopefully I will soon be rid of her overwhelming presence forever.

Yet even as he thought that, he fell right in step with the lady, and without asking her permission, began to accompany her on her walk. The pull she had on him was simply irresistible.

Asya was surprised and annoyed by Mr. Darcy's decision to walk with her, but she said nothing. She figured it would be best to simply ignore the infuriating man. Yet as they walked on in silence, she could not help occasionally glancing at him with a mixture of displeasure and curiosity. The man entirely puzzled her. He had made it abundantly clear that he disliked and distrusted her, yet the night before at the Lucas Lodge he had asked her to dance and now he chose to remain in her company with no need and, come to think of it, not even an invitation. She had not said a word to him, so surely he must understand that she would prefer to continue in solitude. Wouldn't he also prefer to carry on with his ride alone? They hated each other; they were not even talking – why on earth was he not leaving her alone?

For the next ten minutes, Fitzwilliam felt as if he was walking on coals. He understood how strange it must seem that he joined Miss Sapin without a single word, and simply followed her in silence. Yet he absolutely could not think of any way to start a conversation. His rational capacities appeared to be failing him, and he could hardly think, let alone talk. Yet at the same time, he could not bring himself to leave her. So he continued on in silence, growing increasingly red with embarrassment.

For her part, Asya's frustration was mounting to the point where it absolutely had to be released. Yet she refused to break the awkward silence between them. He was the one who joined her, so it was up to him to begin to speak. In an attempt to somehow break out of their monotonous yet nerve-wrecking walk, she stopped abruptly when she saw a comfortable looking tree trunk.

She then proceeded to unceremoniously seat herself on the trunk and remove the uncomfortable 19th century shoes from her dainty feet. She had been annoyed with the contemporary footwear, unused to wearing such constricting flats, and her feet had been aching for the release. Of course, Asya was fully conscious of the impropriety of her action. She had just removed her footwear, and in presence of a gentleman, no less. If it had been anyone else with her, she would never even dream of breaching the local etiquette in such an unspeakable manner. But it was Mr. Darcy. The man who had found her to be improper and uncivilized for doing nothing more than some simple, casual business. A man who was so uptight and sexist was not worth her attempting to fulfill all demands of the regency English etiquette. It was clear that he disliked her, and, she noted with satisfaction, she really did not give a damn about what he thought of her.

And so she took her little shoes in one hand, lifted her chin, and pierced Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy the Master of Pemberley with a defiant, challenging gaze.

He did not notice. His eyes were trained on her feet, and for the whole world he could not take them off. Never had he realized how very captivating a pair of fine ladies' feet could be. Rarely had he seen a lady's bare feet before – only Georgiana's, and perhaps his cousin Anne's, years ago, in childhood. But Asya's dainty little feet were surely the most beautiful in the world. They were spotlessly clean, and appeared to be so very soft, with no hard skin, and her nails were such an unusually shiny color… Yes, Darcy decided distractedly, Miss Sapin's feet were officially among the most arousing things he had ever seen (the poor man had never before seen a modern pedicure). And how very well her little toes could fit between his lips…

_'Too much, too much! You've gone too far!' _His mind screamed desperately. And with great difficulty, accompanied by a most disappointed sigh, he at last withdrew his eyes from Asya's delectable toes and fixed them instead on her own beautiful orbs.

She was looking at him with curiosity, her lips twisted in a sardonic half-smile. Apparently, Mr. Darcy was not going to speak. Yet as she continued on her walk, now pleasantly barefoot, he was once again accompanying her.

At last giving up, she laughed nervously, and said with more defiant confidence than she felt:

"I suppose you are not used to such a display of impropriety. But surely, I hope it is not too shocking, coming from _me_…"

Not expecting to be addressed by her, and completely unprepared to respond, Fitzwilliam Darcy uttered the first words that fell out of his mouth:

"You have beautiful feet, Miss Sapin."

She was so surprised to hear that from him, that she immediately stopped and turned to face him, her brows creased in bafflement.

"I… I am sorry," he stuttered. "That was entirely uncalled for. It was improper of me to speak that way. Forgive me, Miss Sapin. I… I j-just said the first thing, that came to mind, so very stupid of me… I'm so sorry." He was rambling now. But what else could he do, when she was watching him so intently, one eyebrow raised in half-question, one corner of her lips lifted in half-smile?

"You are forgiven, Mr. Darcy," she said formally after a short silence. Deciding not to attempt anymore to decipher the confusing man's actions, she continued with her walk, much more at ease now that they had exchanged a few words.

But she did not take more than half a dozen steps, before she suddenly stepped on a terribly sharp root, and, crying out in pain, sunk to the ground. Hot involuntary tears attached her eyes, and through the haze she could only make out Mr. Darcy kneeling before her, with what appeared to be an uncertain and panicked expression.

For some two or three seconds, she simply sat in one attitude. Once the pain subsided, she gingerly took her injured foot in her hands and hazarded a look at the wound. It was bleeding profusely. A small, simple cut, yet quite deep, as if she had stepped on a large, nasty needle.

Asya Sapin was a strong woman in many respects, and there were few things she could not deal with. Unfortunately, the sight of her own blood was one of them.

She felt light and faint as she beheld her injured foot, and hardly knew what to do. Sensing her distress, Mr. Darcy at last found his own voice, and, trembling all over from the treacherous excitement (_'How can I be excited when a lady is injured and in distress?'_ He scolded himself), he extended his hand to her wounded foot.

"Allow me," he said softly, and as she withdrew her own hand, he took her small foot reverently in his. That mere touch sent a myriad shivers through his body, but he refused to acknowledge them. His business now was to aid a damsel in distress, not relish in the feel of Miss Sapin's soft toes against his eager fingers.

With some difficulty, Mr. Darcy overcame his cravings, and played the part of impartial doctor. He tore a part of his cravat, and tenderly wrapped it around Miss Sapin's foot, at last stopping the bleeding. Once all was finished, he ventured a look at her face. She was watching him with an unreadable expression, seemingly lost in thought.

Asya was neither stupid nor inexperienced. And the way Mr. Darcy had looked at her feet, the tender, reverent way in which he bandaged them did not escape her notice. She was still sure that he deeply disdained her, but she now realized that he must also be strongly attracted to her.

_'Poor man,' _she thought sarcastically, _' it must be awful pining after such an improper young lass!'_

Although a part of Asya was somewhat amused by her newfound realization that the annoyingly proper, conceited, and chauvinistic man before her was somehow mesmerized by her pedicured toes, she was still more annoyed by him than entertained. So in an effort to end their awkward proximity, she decided to continue walking back to the Lucas Lodge.

"Thank you," she said curtly, and attempted to stand up. Yet as she was doing so, she stumbled slightly, and found herself firmly held in a man's strong yet trembling arms.

"No," Mr. Darcy stated simply, amazing even himself with the firmness and confidence of his voice. "I will not allow you to walk."

"What do you mean 'you will not allow me'?" Asya repeated, her voice filled with a mixture of consternation and indignation.

Mr. Darcy's only response was to lift her effortlessly into his arms, bridal style.

"Put me down," Asya demanded sternly.

Taking a moment to catch his breath from the incandescent sensation of Miss Sapin's supple body in his excited arms, Mr. Darcy collected himself enough to respond in am almost indifferent tone: "I will do no such thing. You have wounded your foot, and I cannot allow you to walk in such a condition."

Asya frowned. "Surely, I would be able to walk back to your horse on my own, and you would fulfill your gentlemanly duty by allowing me to borrow your animal."

He shook his head. "I left my horse a while ago, and I am not sure I remember exactly where it was. It would be best if we did not go looking for him now. I'll send my servants later to fetch him. For now, our main concern should be to deliver you inside so that you may be properly looked after."

To this, she erupted in short, bitter laughter. "Surely, you do not intend to carry me all the way back to the Lucas Lodge!"

By this point, Mr. Darcy was already walking quickly, in long, confident strives. "Indeed, I do not," he replied plainly, enjoying her confusion. "We are much closer to Netherfield, madam."

Asya gasped, terrified. No, this could not be happening to her! To be delivered "wounded" to Netherfield, right into the arms of the enamored Mr. Bingley was certainly not her plan. Much less was it her intention to be carried by the frustrating Mr. Darcy all the way to Netherfield Park.

She began wriggling in an attempt to escape from Mr. Darcy's arms, but he only tightened his hold on her. For the first time, Asya noticed how very well defined his biceps were. He certainly had attractive arms. And, come to think of it, the rest of him was not bad to look at either. Too bad he was such an arrogant jerk, or she could almost enjoy the sensation of being carried in his strong, manly arms.

Had Asya looked at his face at that moment, she would have noticed a most pronounced blush spread against his cheeks. The rubbing that her wriggles had produced only served to remind him of the prominent arousal caused by holding her so intimately. He did not for a moment entertain the notion of Miss Sapin noticing his physical distress, for as strange and confusing as she was, she was still a lady, and therefore most certainly a maiden. But even if he believed his condition to have gone unnoticed (which incidentally it had, since Asya was much too preoccupied with her own annoyance to notice her companion's inconvenient erection), he was still deeply embarrassed by it.

He was equally embarrassed by his actions. As much as he wished it, he could not deceive himself that carrying Miss Sapin in such a pleasurably intimate manner was at all proper, even given her condition. He was, after all, a complete stranger to her. His audacity of simply lifting her into his arms had surprised him as much as it had her. Never before had he acted so brazenly, improperly, so forthright. Especially with a young lady! If someone had told him only a week before that he would be holding a woman who was neither his wife, nor his fiancée, nor his close relation, in such a manner, he would have simply laughed at the absurdity of such a supposition. This was the most un-Darcy-like he had ever acted!

Yet did he regret it? Absolutely not! Shameful as it was, he was _congratulating _himself on his present situation, on his newfound boldness that enabled him to act in such an uncharacteristic manner. With puerile satisfaction, he remarked that Charles Bingley's sensual waltz with Miss Sapin had been nothing to the way _he _was now holding her. Perhaps his friend had been able to secure her hand for a most graceful and alluring dance, and held her sumptuous body tantalizingly against his own. But _he_, Fitzwilliam Darcy, was now the one who held the full weight of this goddess's form in his arms, the bottom of her delightful buttocks rubbing so enticingly against his arousal, her head (resigned, no longer fighting him) resting gently on his shoulder. _He _was with her in this shocking, improper, and utterly wonderful manner. Ha! Take that!

When at last they approached Netherfield Park, Mr. Darcy saw a servant at the base of the stairs, and instructed:

"Peter, please fetch Mr. Bingley at once. Tell him that we have an unexpected guest in need of immediate assistance."

The servant rushed off, while Mr. Darcy began climbing the stairs up to the mansion, with Anastasia still in his arms.

As they approached the door, Asya began squirming again, demanding to be released. Mr. Darcy would have none of that, and continued to hold her firmly.

"Mr. Darcy, this is absurd!" She rebelled at last. "You _must _put me down! We are _here_, for God's sake!"

"I will let you down as soon as there is a comfortable surface on which to rest you, madam," he replied calmly.

"You don't understand," she sighed in exasperation. "It would be most improper if anyone saw us this way! It is already bad enough that one manservant has witnessed this. Do not let your friend see it as well."

Mr. Darcy inwardly chuckled as he thought that he would quite _like _Mr. Bingley to find them in such a condition, for it would clearly show his friend that _he_, Mr. Darcy, had gotten further in pursuit of Miss Sapin. His chest heaved with excitement at the thought of thus marking Asya as his, and drawing in a deep breath, he once again did something entirely out of character. In a ragged, lust-filled voice, he murmured to the woman in his arms:

"Right now, Miss Sapin, I am far more concerned with your well-being than with propriety."

Asya was momentarily stunned by such a statement from the normally terribly strict gentleman. But she recovered immediately. She did not wish to remain in his arms, and at that point would do anything to make him desist. So she did the one thing she was sure would make him drop her from his annoyingly powerful arms. She kissed him.

It was not much: only a quick assault that barely gave him enough time to respond. But it achieved its purpose. For sure enough, Mr. Darcy was so stunned by the touch of Miss Sapin's luscious lips against his own, that he involuntarily put her on the ground, piercing her with a questioning gaze. They remained thus for what seemed like eternity, yet what must have been no more than a second, beholding each other with intense gazes filled with uncertainly and annoyance on one side, and confusion and desire on the other, until Mr. Bingley's voice brought them out of their mutual reverie.


	6. Ill at Netherfield Park

A loud commotion suddenly enveloped Anastasia and Fitzwilliam, as they were met by Charles and half a dozen servants at once. Caroline Bingley, upon hearing her brother rush down the stairs, grumpily followed, unable to overcome her curiosity as to what could have caused such uproar. She called her sister on the way, and Mr. and Mrs. Hurst were the last to sleepily descend the stairs.

As the inhabitants of Netherfield Park reached the two young people in the foyer, their facial expressions did not fail to betray their inner surprise and turmoil. Caroline Bingley at first almost smiled at the sight of Darcy, the object of her constant pursuit, only to then creased her brow in confusion at his disheveled appearance and half-torn cravat. And as soon as she saw Miss Sapin, from whose slender waist Darcy had not yet had time to remove his arm, her expression grew sour. Louisa Hurst, paying less attention to Darcy and more to the curious Russian, was staring at Asya's bare feet, covered only by a muddy piece of clothe, with surprise and disdain. Bingley was beholding the object of his affection with genuine worry.

But as his eyes traveled down to her uncovered feet, Charles could not help but swallow hard as the unexpected sensual sight assaulted his vision.

This was the first thing Darcy noticed since the kiss. For the first several moments, he had stood with his eyes and thoughts fixed unwaveringly on Asya, completely oblivious to all the noise and movement around them. That kiss was… it was… indescribable. Unbelievable. In fact, he still could not believe it, and was half-convinced that it had never happened, that he had merely dreamed up the soft feel of her lips against his.

_'For surely, she could not have actually kissed me. That is not done, not by a lady, not by anyone, not even by her! It's preposterous.'_ Yet the thrilling tingle was still there; he could still feel it on his eager lips. _'But how could it be?'_

So lost was he in his own thoughts and feelings, that he managed to completely ignore Charles, Caroline, Louisa, and everyone else. Until, that is, he heard his friend's swallow, the meaning of which he could not mistake, so closely it resembled some of his own reactions to Miss Sapin's tantalizing presence. Abruptly shifting his gaze to Charles's direction, Darcy noticed that his friend's own eyes were unmistakably fixed on Miss Sapin's small feet.

A pang of pain cursed through his body as Fitzwilliam Darcy thought that he would no longer be the only one to enjoy that intimate sight. Embarrassing as it was, he now begrudged his friend the otherworldly pleasure of beholding _his Asya_'s bare feet.

Seeing that Darcy, who had been the one to insist on bringing her here, now stood numb as a rock, Asya shot him a quick angry glare, then put on a sweet smile on her lips, and gave a graceful curtsey to her hosts.

"Mr. Bingley," she turned to Charles, "I apologize profusely for this unexpected intrusion. I had the misfortune of slightly hurting my foot, and your friend insisted that I come with him to Netherfield. I appreciate the generous hospitality, but I am happy to assure you that I am now quite well, and shall be on my way at once."

She was about to turn away from the Bingley siblings, who all stood transfixed and puzzled, and towards the door. But Darcy suddenly recovered his ability to act and speak, and determinedly put one arm around her.

"You will do no such thing!" The words came out more forceful than he had intended, and he inwardly cringed at the impropriety of his own actions in front of so many people. Doubting his ability to speak appropriately to Miss Sapin at present, he turned instead to Bingley. "Charles, Miss Sapin has sustained a deep cut and is unable to walk. I suggest she remain at Netherfield for the present, where I am sure she would receive the best of care."

"Of course, of course!" Bingley chimed in at once, finally recovering from his confusion. He was not quite fully understanding what was going with Miss Sapin, and, what was even more perplexing, his friend was acting very much _not _like his usual self. But he overcame his doubts, and focused instead on the pleasant fact that he had his angel at his home and in need of his care. Eagerly, he turned to Miss Sapin: "Please, allow me to escort you to a guestroom. You must rest. I will take care of you, Miss Sapin." He blushed. "Anything you wish, you only have to ask me and you will have it at once."

He offered her his arm.

"_She cannot walk_, Charles!" Darcy actually shouted.

As everyone turned towards him in shock, he prepared to scoop Miss Sapin back into his powerful arms. But she would have none of that.

"Please, Mr. Darcy, there is absolutely _no need_." She pierced him with such a withering glare, that he involuntarily moved back. Then, she took Charles's still-proffered arm, and, willing herself to ignore the piercing pain that accompanied her every step, let her host lead her into a guestroom.

Once Charles and Asya left the foyer, and the servants scurried away to help, Gerald Hurst lazily retreated back upstairs. Darcy was left alone with Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst. As he walked into the sitting room, the women followed.

Frustrated and unsettled, Fitzwilliam Darcy began pacing quickly, almost angrily, in front of the windows, tugging restlessly at the remnant of his cravat. The range of emotions presently raging in his chest was unsettling. So many things had happened! So many feelings had perturbed his customary calm!

There had been his disturbing dreams; the unexpected encounter with Miss Sapin in the woods; their awkward walk together; the shared intimacy as he bandaged up her foot; his insistence on carrying her to Netherfield Park; her startling kiss; and finally, the distressing fact that right now _Charles _was tending to her in the privacy of a bedchamber.

Darcy's frustrated musings were interrupted by Caroline Bingley's shrill voice:

"What a dreadful state Miss Sapin was in! Did you not see, Louisa – her petticoat six inches deep in mud! And her _bare _feet! How could any lady allow herself to be seen in such a state, and by gentlemen, no less!"

"Indeed," her sister chimed in readily. "I was quite perplexed to see a young woman so improperly attired."

"And to think that until now I had thought her a lady of fine manners!" Caroline complained with an exaggerated sign. "How wrong I was! She is no better than the rest of this unrefined country gentry. Indeed, I now see that she is just as improper as those Bennets."

The truth was that Caroline had long been searching for something, _anything _to find fault with in Mss Sapin's person. From the moment she stepped into Hertfortshire, she had been predisposed to scorn the local society. And the simple people she encountered made it easy for her to find fault with their manners. But Miss Anastasia Sapin was different. She was not a native of Hertfortshire, so any comments Caroline may have made about the local society could not include Asya. What was more, Miss Sapin had such grace, such dignity, that it was absolutely impossible to find anything amiss with her own person.

Yet she was the one who had not only captured the heart of Caroline's brother – that Miss Bingley really didn't mind, for Asya appeared to not be beneath them socially – but also seemed to discomfit greatly Caroline's own fancy, Mr. Darcy. The signs of his infatuation, though much more confused and subtle than Charles's, were unmistakable to Caroline. That was why she was so ecstatic now to finally be able to expose Miss Sapin's clear unsuitability to the man.

Fitzwilliam's irritation only grew as he heard Caroline's ignorant criticism. He found himself unable to contain his temper.

"Do you consider _me _improper, Caroline?" He demanded.

"I – why – um - how could you even think such a thing, Fitzwilliam dear?" Caroline stammered, not understanding where such a question could even come from.

"Well, that is surprising, considering that my half-torn cravat is a much more shocking sight than Miss Sapin's muddied petticoat," he pointed out sardonically.

To this, Miss Bingley had no response. Now that he drew her attention to the impropriety of his own appearance, Caroline had to acknowledge the unpleasant implication that the missing half of Mr. Darcy's cravat and the muddied fabric around Miss Sapin's foot were one and the same. Thinking some more, she also was terrified to realize that not only had he obviously intended to carry Miss Sapin to the guestroom, but he must have actually carried her to Netherfield Park from wherever in the woods she sustained her injury. _'Shocking, appalling! This would not do; no, it would not do at all_.'

"In fact, I am afraid I am not fit to be seen by ladies. Pray excuse me, Caroline, Louisa." And with a stiff bow, Mr. Darcy rushed out of the room and towards his own chambers.


	7. Encounter in the Library

Anastasia spent the remainder of the day in bed, under the watchful eye of Charles Bingley. She was energetic and active, not one to remain idly in bed. She was growing restless by the minute. And there was something else that greatly added to her anxiety. From every moment that Charles spent fussing over her with a tender look in his eyes, it became increasingly apparent that his unwelcome attentions would continue and only increase. Indeed, Asya now saw clearly: the only way to make him desist before he proposed would be to speak to him frankly and openly. But how could she do so without offending him?

She at last got some reprieve from his vigilant care taking in the evening, after she finished her supper in bed. It had been improper for Charles to remain in a lady's guestroom alone all day, but he seemed not to have cared. However, it would be doubly improper at night. And out of his respect for her honor, he at last left her side, wishing her a restful night.

But she could not sleep. Not after spending interminable hours chained to that bed. So as soon as she was sure that Charles had retreated far enough from her room, she quietly snuck out. Her foot still hurt with every step, and she winced slightly at the pain, but nothing else. She could take it. Uncertain of where exactly she was going, Asya wondered aimlessly through the halls, hungrily taking in her surroundings. She was led by sheer curiosity.

She at last reached a large double door, and decided to enter. Walking in, she caught her breath at what she beheld. Books, books, books. Asya had always been fond of private libraries, but now the collections of books in modern houses seemed meager compared to _this_. Her glance traveled reverently across the shelves. _'Beautiful.'_ She let out a deep sigh.

It was then that the other occupant of the room turned towards her.

Many emotions passed through Mr. Darcy at once at the sight of Miss Sapin. But what first came out of his mouth was: "Why are you not in bed?"

Asya had not seen him, and was startled by his voice. Taking a shaky step backwards, she turned towards him. "Mr. Darcy," she acknowledged with a light nod.

He was growing impatient, feeling strange pain at the sight of her standing up, putting such pressure on her injured foot. "I asked you why you were not in bed," he repeated with irritation.

"I heard you the first time," she replied calmly, raising her chin. "But seeing as I am not accountable to you for where I choose to be, I decided not to answer."

He was growing increasingly angry. "You are unwell. How can you walk all this way by yourself? You must go straight back to bed and remain there until you recover!"

Finally, Asya also gave in to the irritation that this man seemed to always cause her. "I move as I please, Mr. Darcy. You would do well to remember that. I see no reason why I cannot come and get myself a book."

"You wanted a book?" He asked dumbly.

"Sure," she shrugged.

"Then you should have asked someone to fetch it for you!" He insisted vehemently, immediately thinking of how happy he would have been if that "someone" had been him. Chasing such thoughts away, he added rather bitterly: "There are plenty of servants at Netherfield."

Asya did not choose to deign that with a response. Instead, she walked over to the nearest shelf, and began looking through the titles, tracing her hand tenderly along the books.

Fitzwilliam stood mesmerized by that simple action. If only it could be his cheek that she would thus caress! If only it could be his eyes that she would look into with such wander, such tenderness!

He felt guilty for thinking in such a manner, while the lady was still standing and most likely in pain. With a tenderness that had not been in his voice a moment ago, he beseeched her: "Please, Miss Sapin, do be seated. I can bring some books over for you, just tell me what you like."

Asya was surprised to hear such a change in his tone, and took a few moments to study his face with curiosity. Noticing that her appraising look was causing him to blush, she at last conceded, and sat on a small but comfortable sofa.

Fitzwilliam Darcy immediately rushed to bring a rather large stack of books to the foot of the sofa. "Is there anything you would especially like to see, Miss Sapin?" He asked with real concern. His tone failed to hide the eagerness he felt at the thought of being of use to her.

Asya shook her head. "These would do quite well for the present. Thank you." Picking up the top book from the stack he had brought, Asya turned determinedly away from him.

Fitzwilliam knew that those words were meant as a dismissal. But he continued to stand stiffly a few steps from the sofa, simply watching her. Thinking of all the things that he had done and felt that day – of all the things he needed to discuss with her, but couldn't summon the courage to do so.

_'But I must talk to her_,' he reminded himself determinedly, almost impatiently. Without thinking, Asya had traced her slick pointy tongue across her bottom lip while reading. That was simply too much. As the memories of their kiss rushed to the front of his mind, Darcy could no longer avoid the inevitable: that kiss must be addressed.

"Miss Sapin," he began sternly, gravely. _'A bit _too _gravely,' _he winced inwardly. "We need to talk."

She looked at him, and raised one eyebrow in question. "About?" She prompted, when he did not proceed further.

"About… today. Our… you… um… the kiss," he at last stammered out. Deeply embarrassed by speaking so bluntly in front of a lady.

"What about it?" Asya's irritation was visible in her pointed look and creased brows. Why did he have to bring _that _up of all things? It was nothing but an ill-conceived ruse to get out of his unwelcome hold. Surely, there was no need to discuss it!

Now that she posed that question, Darcy did not quite know how to respond. Indeed, what about it? Under normal circumstances, a kiss with a lady would necessitate a proposal to save her reputation. But that was hardly required at present, considering that it was _she _who hadkissed _him_. Darcy blushed with pleasure and embarrassment at that last thought.

Impatient and irritated by his silence, Asya spoke hurriedly: "Look, if you mean to criticize me for the impropriety of kissing you, then I would thank you not to. You were the one who insisted on carrying me, and that stupid kiss was the surest way to get out of your arms before your friend saw us. Your own insistence on carrying me was equally improper. It would be hypocritical of you to rebuke or criticize me."

Darcy was taken aback. "I meant to do no such thing, I assure you."

"Then what did you wish to talk about?" Asya was genuinely confused.

"I am not entirely sure. But I felt that the matter needed to be addressed… you have _kissed _me, after all!" Again, he had the decency to blush.

Asya let out a shrill, forced laugh. This man was incomprehensible. And absolutely insufferable. Annoyed, she replied curtly: "It was just a kiss, for God's sake!"

Fitzwilliam Darcy was momentarily stunned into silence.

"What do you mean – just a kiss?" At her silence accompanied by a noncommittal shrug, understanding began to dawn on him. "You don't mean… you don't mean to say you have done that before?" He probed tentatively, his insides freezing up at the mere thought.

"Done what, exactly?" Asya asked defensively.

"K-kissed a man."

Again, Asya laughed bitterly. "My, oh my, you _are _a hypocrite!"

"Excuse me?"

"Surely, Mr. Darcy, you do not mean to scorn me just because you consider it improper for a _lady _to kiss a man. You seem to have some pretty harsh notions about what is and isn't proper for a woman. Holding the other gender to much stricter standards than yourself. For a _man _it is fine to do business, to engage in a simple kiss. But for a lady, you consider it completely preposterous!" She may not have realized it, but with that rant, Anastasia was letting out all the frustration she had felt since their first meeting. Since she had first discovered that he considered her improper for _doing business_, of all things.

"I don't… don't hold you to a stricter standard," Darcy replied, perplexed.

"Ha! Well, surely, you don't mean to tell me that _you _have never kissed a women before!"

"I have not," he said calmly.

Asya stopped in her tracks. How could this be? How could a well-off, handsome man of eight-and-twenty never have been kissed before? Surely, that was impossible. Yet the conviction in his voice left no doubt to the veracity of his statement.

Just to make sure, she asked rather rudely: "Have you… ever slept with a woman?"

The steady shake of his head was at this point fully expected. He was indeed a twenty-eight-year-old virgin. Asya did not know what to say.

Mr. Darcy brought her out of her thoughts: "And you have." He stated blandly, his voice devoid of emotion. It was not a question.

Anastasia never knew that she could actually feel embarrassed when she confirmed: "Yes."

What followed were several long, painful minutes of silence.

Pushing his eyes firmly shut, and directing his breathing to at least a semblance of level, Fitzwilliam Darcy attempted to sort through the feelings presently coursing through his chest in a rational manner. At first, there was rage. Rage and jealousy. An overwhelming, sickening jealousy at the image of Asya, _his _Asya, in the arms of another man. Asya's lips on the mouth of another. Her legs around firm manly thighs that were not his own. Asya screaming in ecstasy under another man. Ugh!

His head threatened to explode as these images raced through his mind, and his stomach was tied up in knots. It took all the self-control he possessed not to vomit on the spot.

Once those feelings of blind, raging jealousy had numbed a little, a new emotion took over. Sadness. Resigned, dejected sadness. For he could no longer deceive himself that maybe, just _maybe, _despite all his initial misgivings, Miss Anastassia Sapin was a lady. Indeed, now it was plain as day: not only was she not a lady, she was not even a maiden. She spoke openly, without even having the grace to blush, about kissing and sleeping with other men. Now that she had admitted to it so explicitly herself, there was no chance of him defending her in his mind. No, Miss Sapin was the epitome of unsuitable.

And now that he could no longer fool himself to the contrary, only one course of action remained. She shall be nothing to him. And from the next morning onwards, he was determined never to pay her attention. It was a painful decision to make, but there was absolutely no other choice. He was Fitzwilliam Darcy. And she was apparently nothing but a common trollop. She left him no choice but to ignore her with cold civility.

Fitzwilliam Darcy let out a heavy, miserable sigh as he forever gave up on the enchanting Miss Sapin.

Anastasia Sapin, in the meantime, was experiencing an emotional roller coaster of her own.

First she felt surprise. It took her several moments to fully comprehend the idea of such a man as Fitzwilliam Darcy being as inexperienced as he had just proclaimed to be. Yet it was consistent with his manners: those of the most uptight stickler for the outrageous 18th century morals.

Then for a split second, she felt a glimmer of triumph. She had managed to do what no other woman had done before! She had broken down the defenses of the formidable Mr. Darcy, causing him to break one of his own principles. He, the epitome of propriety, had acted fully improper around her and only her. So in a way, she had won.

But that did not last. Almost as soon as it came, her triumph was replaced by overpowering guilt. Here he was, a man who fully adhered to what he preached. Not a hypocrite as she had initially surmised, but simply a very morally upright man. True, their notions on gender roles and propriety had not always agreed, but that was a natural consequence of the different times in which they were born. She could not blame him for any of it. And with a stabbing feeling of guilt, Asya was forced to acknowledge that she had misjudged him.

And that kiss – that stupid, cursed kiss! – how she now regretted it. Mr. Darcy had without a doubt been saving that kiss, as well as the rest of himself, for his future wife. And now she, Anastasia Sapin, had come and so carelessly _stolen _that first kiss from him.

She was overcome with mortification when she thought what his first kiss was like: a simple peck on the lips designed to trick him into letting her out of his arms. He had carried her out of pure concern for her well-being, and how did she repay him? She made his first kiss nothing but a callous ruse! If she had to steal his first kiss, then she should have at least made it a kiss worthy of being his first!

_'At least _that _I can correct_,' Asya thought half-hopefully half-sardonically.

"Come here," she instructed firmly.

Darcy hesitated for a moment. He had just determined to stay as far from Miss Sapin as possible. Yet the determination in her eyes told him that if he did not obey immediately, _she _would come to _him_. And that would inevitably hurt her injured foot, which was absolutely out of the question. So with a sigh, he followed her summon, and walked to the sofa.

When Asya was about to stand up to be level with him, he once again used her hurt foot as an excuse to instead seat himself next to her on the sofa.

"Yes, Miss Sapin?" The light tremble in his voice belied the cold civility he attempted to put into his words.

Asya looked away as she spoke gently: "I am sorry, Mr. Darcy. I did not know it was your first kiss, or else I would have never presumed to kiss you. I… I apologize for stealing that from you."

"It is of no import, I assure you." He shifted uneasily.

"It is of great import to me. And the least I can do is give you a _proper _first kiss."

And before he had a chance to argue, he felt the unmistakable warmth of her lips on his. Under the overwhelming pleasure of her tongue snaking itself tenderly between his lips, he forgot his resolution long enough to helplessly grant her access.

This kiss was nothing like the one before. It was scorching, overwhelming, and so terribly _intimate_. Never before had he felt so close to another being, and for several moments Fitzwilliam Darcy felt completely engulfed by Miss Sapin. Nothing existed but her and her sumptuous lips, her sweet tongue playing with his own.

At last she drew away, and he felt completely disoriented. He hardly remembered where he was, consumed almost exclusively by a single feeling: that of emptiness and longing at the loss of her touch.

"That's better," Asya whispered softly, and looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

At her spoken words, the spell was suddenly broken, and Darcy recovered from his trance. He stood up abruptly and took a few steps away. He still could not fully wrap his mind around what had just happened, and could still feel the pleasant tingle on his lips. But he filed those thoughts and sensations for later. Now, he knew he must get as far from Miss Sapin as he possibly could. His will was not his own when he was in this vixen's presence.

"It's getting late; I must be going now," he stated flatly. "I will call for a servant to assist you to your room." He moved determinedly towards the door. Then turned to pierce her with one last intense look. "Good night, Miss Sapin."

And before she had a chance to form a response, he was out of the door.


	8. A Bit of French Poetry

[Note: The French poem in this chapter is _'L'Invitation au Voyage_' by Charles Baudelaire. I would refer you to an English translation, but that would require me to actually endorse a translation, which is a task for which I feel ill-qualified. So with my apologies, I invite interested readers to google for themselves.]

It was an absolute torture. Avoiding Miss Sapin at every opportunity, and when speaking to her – doing so with only the barest civility. Pretending with all his might that he desired her absence, that she did not matter to him, that his entire being was not on fire every time he saw her, every time her presence assaulted him with memories of their passionate kiss.

And how he wished now that he had never brought her to Netherfield! She had almost recovered by now, yet the enamored Charles would hear nothing of letting her leave. And so it was that she spent three full days under the same roof as Fitzwilliam, driving him insane. And it was all his own fault. _He _was the one who had insisted on that fateful day on carrying her to Netherfield Park.

Back then, he _wanted _her near him. Back then, he knew nothing of her past. Back then, there was still a faint possibility – a hope – of a future together. Back then, everything was so utterly different. _Back then_…

It felt like a lifetime ago.

He paced the sitting room restlessly, tracing the same path on the carpet for what felt like the hundredth time.

Charles Bingley, who had been reading peacefully, with a silly grin on his lips, now switched to watching Fitzwilliam pace. Darcy shuddered, overtaken by paranoid thoughts. _'Why is he looking at me so intently? Does he know? Had he noticed?_' The thought that someone may find out about the scandalous kiss he had shared with Miss Sapin was always at the back of Fitzwilliam's mind.

Caroline Bingley had given up her attempts of drawing Fitzwilliam into conversation, and settled instead for gossiping with her sister.

Louisa Hurst was bored; Caroline's chatter was only a mild amusement.

Gerald Hurst was half asleep.

The entire company, idly assembled in the sitting room, was awaiting Miss Sapin's descent from her chamber, before commencing an evening of equally idle, equally boring "entertainment."

Asya was accompanied by a servant when she came down. It vexed her. She was not fond of being looked after like a helpless child, yet it seemed nothing would convince Charles that she had fully recovered.

She had begun growing tired of Netherfield Park. This evening proved as boring as the others. So very predictable – always the same. Charles's attentions, Louisa's ostracism, Caroline's snide remarks, Gerald's nonchalance… Fitzwilliam's cold indifference.

And then, Caroline Bingley asked her to play. Startled, Asya raised a questioning brow. This was the first time she had been asked to entertain. During the past two nights, Caroline preferred to monopolize the pianoforte.

"Won't you play for us, Miss Sapin?" Miss Bingley repeated her request with a saccharine smile glazed thinly over the sarcastic tone.

"Gladly, Miss Bingley."

Anastasia sat at the piano, and as her fingers gilded over the keys, she was assaulted by memories of a happier time at a happier place. She played the Moonlit Sonata without even knowing it.

_'How can I possibly keep my eyes off her when she plays with such feeling, such longing?' _Darcy thought half-bitterly, and gave in. Once his eyes fell on Miss Sapin's beautiful features, they remained trained on her for the duration of the song.

The song was simpler than others he had heard, her fingers less agile than Georgiana's. But to him, her playing was perfect. As perfect as her dancing, as perfect as her smiles, as perfect as her kiss – as perfect as all of her. There was such feeling in her playing! Her facial features concentrated into a mask of thoughtful yearning – forming such a perfect harmony with the wistful sounds she produced.

His heart ached. For her, for himself. The pain was threatening to erupt into tears, when he was abruptly saved from such humiliation by Miss Bingley's shrill voice:

"Your playing is lovely, Miss Sapin, but won't you sing? It is such a bore to listen to repetitive music without any words."

Asya looked disoriented as she stared at her hostess, taking in the full absurdity of the woman before her. Suddenly, all her desire to play dissipated.

"I do not sing," she stated simply, and moved away from the instrument. "You are clearly much better suited to entertain than I am," and she motioned towards the piano.

But clearly, Miss Bingley was not done with her.

"Oh, humor us, Miss Sapin! You have a lovely voice, and surely – you must know _some _songs."

Then Asya understood - the Bingley woman was attempting to capitalize on Asya's lack of familiarity with the local favorites among music and poetry.

"I am not a great fan of _songs_, Miss Bingley," Asya replied curtly, sardonically.

"What can you mean? Surely, you must agree that there is great pleasure in rhythm and rhyme. No one would dispute that an _accomplished _woman should be well versed in poetry."

Asya laughed. "I never said I have anything against _poetry_, Miss Bingley. On the contrary, I am very fond of it. I was merely speaking of its more frivolous form – songs." She was playing along – trumping Miss Bingley's pretentiousness with even greater snobbery.

Miss Bingley didn't seem to notice the sarcastic tone of Asya's words. "Well then, pray delight us with a poem, Miss Sapin."

There was no way out of it. "Very well."

Asya took a deep breath.

And then – the first words tumbled out off their own accord. _'Mon enfant, ma soeur_…'

Darcy, who had drifted into his own thoughts for the duration of the ladies' argument, was immediately roused with those four simple words. The way Miss Sapin pronounced each syllable, infusing it with such feeling, such tenderness, such love… He was completely under her spell, images of Georgiana, accompanied by such pleasant warmth, flooding his mind.

His gaze trained on the goddess before him – and his mind on his own sister – he awaited what Miss Sapin would give him next. And it did not disappoint.

_Mon enfant, ma sœur,_

_Songe à la douceur_

_D'aller là-bas vivre ensemble,_

_Aimer à loisir,_

_Aimer et mourir_

_Au pays qui te ressemble._

_Les soleils mouillés_

_De ces ciels brouillés_

_Pour mon esprit ont les charmes_

_Si mystérieux_

_De tes traîtres yeux,_

_Brillant à travers leurs larmes. _

_Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,_

_Luxe, calme et volupté._

How peaceful, how lovely, how tempting, how enchanting! Darcy's heart alternated between racing and slowing, constricting and relaxing, as the words fell from Miss Sapin's lips. Each word infused with feeling, and coated in her melodious voice. The sounds taunted him, invited him, mocked him, soothed him – all at once. Oh, sweet torture!

And as he listened in to the meaning behind the mesmerizing rhythm, he was lost in the fantastic world of his own thoughts and memories. For the first time in years, he thought of his mother. He never allowed himself to imagine her so colorfully, so realistically, because he knew that it would hurt. But now, he was helpless against it. The images flooded his mind off their own accord; he had no say in it whatsoever. Delightful, painfully happy images first of Georgiana, then of his mother, of himself in childhood… of _home_.

Of that place where he could love at leisure. Without thought to ceremony.

Where he could just live and die.

Where he could cry.

_Des meubles luisants,_

_Polis par les ans,_

_Décoreraient notre chambre,_

_Les plus rares f__leurs _

___Mêlant _odeurs

_Aux vagues senteurs de l'ambre_

_Les riches plafonds,_

_Les miroirs profonds,_

_La splendeur orientale_

_Tout y parlerait_

_À l'âme en secret_

_Sa douce langue natale._

_Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,_

_Luxe, calme et volupté._

Asya's voice threatened to break as her tongue glided over the familiar words, caressing them, begging them to materialize. She had always loved this poem, yet never had it held as much meaning to her as it did now. Now, when she was tired and spent – on the brink of giving up and plunging into despair… unable to cope much longer with all this nonsense, and wishing so feverishly to go back _home._

_Vois sur ces canaux _

_Dormir ces vaisseaux_

_Dont l'humeur est vagabonde;_

_C'est pour assouvir_

_Ton moindre désir_

_Qu'ils viennent du bout du monde._

_Les soleils couchants_

_Revêtent les champs,_

_Les canaux, la ville entière,_

_D'hyacinthe et d'or;_

_Le monde s'endort_

_Dans une chaude lumière!_

_Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,_

_Luxe, calme et volupté._

Long after she was done, the refrain would ring through Fitzwilliam's exhausted mind – "_Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté / Luxe, calme et volupt"_. How inviting, how sweet that sounds! How he _yearned _to go there – to that promise of nothing but order, beauty, and calm.

With those simple lines, Miss Sapin had managed to destroy him, to take his will away and to make him yearn for the single place he could never go. The impossible happiness he could never have – with his mother, and with _her_.

Transfixed, he stared deep into her eyes, and she caught his gaze – she stared back. The feelings in the depth of her blue orbs mirrored his own. He saw clearly _her _pain, _her _longing, _her _own desire to escape to that _Là_, to that promise of peace and perfection. She looked serene, yet so terribly sad, wistful… nostalgic. And he could not help but wonder: _'Where is that _Là _for her?' _Oh, how he yearned to know!

Only for a split second, they felt perfectly in sync. And for that inconsequential moment, he _was _home: lost in her eyes.

But that had clearly not been Miss Bingley's intent. And with the first syllable out of her mouth, she shattered the magic that had spellbound the room.

"What a lovely poem, Miss Sapin! I don't believe I have heard it before. Pray tell, whom is it by?"

"You wouldn't know him," was Asya's curt reply. _'He will not be born for another decade,' _she added mentally.

"But I am curious: do tell!"

"Very well: his name is Charles Baudelaire."

"Indeed, I have never heard of him," Miss Bingley mused. "Is he modern?"

Asya chuckled. "Yes, very… modern." She thought with amusement, that he would be considered modern even in the twenty-first century.

"And how do _you _know of him?"

After a momentary silence, Asya made up her mind. If she was going to lie, she might as well do so extravagantly. "He's a friend of mine," she said nonchalantly. It felt good, liberating somehow – to be friends with Baudelaire. The feelings of yearning and sadness that she had experienced while playing and reciting had gone away. And now she was back to her cheerful self: making the best of her strange situation.

Darcy's heart constricted at her words. _'What _kind _of friend?'_ He thought bitterly, forgetting to breath. He knew that Miss Sapin had slept with men. _'Was this Charles one of them?_' The feelings of jealousy that overtook him at that thought were completely unjustified. He had given up on her; she was nothing to him. But he could not help himself, as he darkly wondered if the longing with which she had recited the poem had anything to do with its author – a handsome Frenchman spouting beautiful poetic lines while ravishing Miss Sapin's body.

The conversation had died, somehow, with Miss Bingley unable to come up with any other questions with which to probe Miss Sapin, and the rest of the company still buried in their own thoughts and feelings.

Fitzwilliam stood turned towards the window, looking out of it with a gloomy expression. As her eyes traveled briefly over his well-composed form, Asya inadvertently remembered that he had not said anything beyond a greeting to her since she kissed him. For some reason, she felt an overwhelming surge of frustration.

"I think I will retire," she declared unceremoniously, and hurriedly left the room before anyone had a chance to protest.

Darcy was lost in thought as he idly watched the door through which she had just disappeared. He did not even notice Caroline Bingley gushing on about their guest's strange behavior.

But he was soon brought out of his reverie by a direct address from Charles Bingley:

"I was very favorably impressed with Miss Sapin's French, Caroline. It was so perfectly fluid, almost native. What do _you _think, Darcy?"

"Yes, indeed," Darcy replied distractedly. Charles was right: Miss Sapin's French was almost as perfect as her English. Yet she claimed to be Russian; he was completely baffled. All he knew was that there was much more to this woman than first met the eye. It was too bad that he would never get to know the full depth of this divinely delicious creature…

He sighed, and then noticed that Charles Bingley was regarding him very intensely. Darcy shuddered with dread, as he again wondered if Charles had noticed anything between himself and Miss Sapin.

Just then, Mr. Bingley suddenly stood up. As he headed towards the door, he turned towards his friend and said in the most serious voice Darcy had ever heard him use:

"Darcy, can I please speak with you in the study?"


	9. The Netherfield Proposal

As Charles Bingley paced agitatedly the length of the room, Fitzwilliam Darcy felt his heart constrict with dread. He could hear the words waiting to come out of Bingley's mouth: words of accusation, words of disappointment, words of reproach.

He, who had always spoken to disapprovingly of Miss Sapin, had now been caught engaging in improper activity with the lady. He, who had attempted to keep Bingley from her, was the one to have succumbed to her charms.

What must Charles think of him now?

"Darcy, I know what I am about to say will cause you pain. But I cannot hold it any longer."

_'There we go_._' _And closing his eyes, Darcy braced himself for the worst.

The words that came next were not what he expected:

"I can bare this no longer. I must – I _will_ – propose to Miss Sapin!"

Darcy's head shut up. "What?"

"You heard me," Bingley replied with irritation. "I have made up my mind, and nothing will dissuade me." Seeing the confused look on Darcy's face and mistaking it for disapprobation, he continued hurriedly: "I am in love with her, Darcy! I have been for some weeks now, and it will not go away. God, can't you see? She's an angel, Darcy! Have you not _heard _her recite that poem?" And he sighed dreamily. "Have you ever heard anything more wonderful?"

"I have not," Fitzwilliam said before he had a chance to prevent these words from tumbling out of his treacherous mouth.

"There you go!" Charles exclaimed triumphantly. "Then you must approve – or at least you must understand!"

"Charles, just because she can play and recite prettily does not mean she will make you a good wife," his friend replied somewhat bitterly.

"And why ever would she _not _make me a splendid wife, Darcy?" Bingley asked defensively.

"There is more to a woman than poetry."

"And what, pray tell, is lacking in Miss Sapin?"

Silence.

"Is she not beautiful?"

"She certainly is, but –"

"Intelligent?"

"Yes, but –"

"She comports herself with utmost decorum."

"Charles, she –"

"She is clearly accomplished – well versed in music, languages, poetry –"

"She is not what she seems," Darcy stated plainly.

"And what _is _she, then, if you're such an expert?"

"She's… well…"

"Do you have anything particular to accuse her of?"

"You hardly know her."

"You did not answer my question. Can you find a single specific fault with the lady, Darcy?"

Momentary hesitation, then, quietly yet determinedly: "No."

"Well then –"

"Charles, what I am saying is that you know next to nothing about her. How can you be so certain that she is_ entirely _a lady?"

Charles let out an exasperated groan. "If this is about her dong business with the shop owner, Darcy, then I wish to hear nothing about it. It's preposterous that you found that to be so offensive! I, for one, disagree with you completely. In fact, I find it endearing. Yes, endearing! I think it's lovely that she can take care of herself, and cares enough to see to her affairs." Then he let out a nervous half-laugh. "And knowing me, Darcy, wouldn't you think that it'd be _good _for my wife to have a little sense in business? Seeing as I have none…"

"Charles, it's not merely that…" Darcy's voice became soft and uncertain. He was becoming hopeless: how could he convince his friend of Miss Sapin's unsuitability without revealing personal information about the lady that would irrevocably ruin her reputation?

"Then what is it, Darcy?" Bingley was nearly shouting. His friend's weak yet stubborn arguments against Miss Sapin were beginning to exasperate him.

Darcy was silent, a grave expression on his face. Inside, his mind was reeling. Feverishly contemplating whether he should reveal the single fact that would determine his friend's future.

On the one hand, he felt obliged by his societal position, as well as by his close friendship with Bingley, to save his friend from this shameless opportunist masquerading as a lady. For that was what she truly was in the eyes of society. That was what she should have been in _his _eyes as well.

But she was not. And _that _was the problem. Try as he may, Darcy could not think of Miss Sapin as a worthless trollop. He could not bring himself to do his aristocratic duty and reveal her secret – thereby forever shutting her out of the aristocratic society. For it was _her _secret. And the gentleman within him – the one with personal, human honor, and not the one that deserved the title merely by birth – could not bring himself to treat her in such a manner.

At the end, he did not have a choice. He could never tell Charles Bingley that Anastasia Sapin was not a maiden. He could never save his friend from entering an engagement, which, on Bingley's wedding night, would inevitably bring him disappointment and shame.

"I'm asking you one last time, Darcy: is there anything _particular _of which you can accuse Miss Sapin? Because if not, then I no longer care to hear your nonsensical arguments against her! I am resolved to marry the lady." Charles paused to catch his breath. "Do you have anything further to say, my friend?"

Darcy shook his head and hung it in sadness. He felt so utterly hopeless. So sad for Bingley. For Asya.

For himself.

With a soft click, he heard the door close. Charles was gone.

The following minutes spent in the empty library were filled with images of Asya and Charles married, then Asya in Charles's bed, then Charles's agony at discovering her condition, then Asya's misery at being married to a man who would forever resent her. And parallel to this tragic story, an even more tragic one: his own, that of the outsider watching her marry his best friend, unable to partake in either her happiness or her despair.

When at last he rose from the armchair and left the now oppressive room, he wondered aimlessly through the hall, as if in a daze. He heard faint voices from the sitting room, and stumbled in. Inside, he saw Miss Sapin seated on a low settee and Mr. Bingley pacing nervously in front of her. Unseen, Darcy stood still and watched. What masochistic tendency made him wish to behold such a painful scene, he knew not. But he could not look away.

"Miss Sapin, may I tell you how much I have come to admire you…" Charles was saying in a shaking, anxious voice.

"Mr. Bingley, please –"

"Over the past few weeks, I have developed a preference for your company that goes beyond –"

"Mr. Bingley, _please_," She repeated more assertively. And the harshness of her tone caused Charles to stop momentarily, and to falter.

"Miss Sapin, I have never done this before, I am very nervous. Please, let me finish uninterrupted," He pleaded with her.

"Mr. Bingley, – Charles," She spoke softly, as if to a child. "Please, don't finish. No, please, stop now – before you have even begun."

"Miss Sapin, are you… do you mean… you're…"

"No," She shook her head softly, ruefully. "I am not rejecting you, Charles. I am merely preventing you from doing something that you would later regret."

"Miss Sapin, how can you say such a thing? If you knew my feelings, you would –"

"Mr. Bingley, while you may be the wiser when it comes to your feelings, I'm afraid you don't know _me_."

"But I do! You are beautiful, intelligent, graceful, and passionate. You're perfect, Miss Sapin," He said breathlessly.

She shook her head and let out a light laugh.

"Oh no, Mr. Bingley. I am far from perfect. In fact, I am not a maiden."

Charles Bingley gasped, and seated himself on the settee so recently vacated by Miss Sapin. He could not trust himself to remain on his feet.

"Miss Sapin, surely, you do not mean –"

"I do."

"Oh."

That was all he said – "oh."

Asya had to hold back a laughter.

Yet she knew this was not a time to laugh.

She knew that what she had done was dangerous – very dangerous. She had now told her of her loss of virginity to _two _people. And in this strange Jane Austen world, that was completely unfathomable – that much she had learned form Mr. Darcy's reaction to her revelation. She knew that by going ahead and also telling Charles she was placing herself in even greater danger of being widely shunned. But at this point, when the proposal was at the very tip of Charles's tongue, it was the only thing she could do to make him desist. The only other option would have been to let him propose and to reject him with no explanation. But she did not wish to hurt his feelings in such a manner. After all, he had been nothing but kind to her, and apparently she had thoughtlessly led him on.

"I… I…" Charles Bingley did not know what to say. "Thank you," He managed at last. "Thank you for telling me."

Asya smiled. "You're welcome. It was the least I could do. I did not want you to make a mistake that you would regret for the rest of your life. So now you see why it is best that you never proposed to me."

"Y-yes," He replied softly. And felt an overwhelming sadness. "Oh Miss Sapin, how I wish… how I wish things could have been different!"

"Me too," She lied. "But… they are not."

They looked at each other and smiled sadly.

_'How cheesy_,' she thought. _'And how very shallow_._'_ It almost hurt her that Bingley's love was so superficial that her lack of virginity immediately extinguished all possibility of a future together. She had never desired his affection, granted, but this shallowness was still… saddening.

"I hope we shall remain friends," Binlgey mumbled pathetically, standing up form the settee and attempting to regain his footing.

"I hope we shall," Asya replied, and extended her hand.

Overcoming his surprise at such an unladylike gesture, Bingley shook it. Then he excused himself and left the room.

Asya let out a deep sigh that she did not know she had been holding. And for the first time since she had found herself on Charlotte's doorstep, she realized just how much she did not fit in. And just how much she yearned – no, _needed_ – to go home.

In the corner, obscured by a shadow, Fitzwilliam Darcy heard her sigh and accompanied it with one of his own. But his was much lighter – it was a sigh of relief, and something else.

When he had resolved not to share Miss Sapin's secret with Bingley, the notion that she might do so herself did not even cross his mind. No, he had fully resigned himself to the inevitable fact that the engagement of Mr. Binlgey and Miss Sapin would be announced that very afternoon. After all, that would be the only _reasonable _conclusion.

A _reasonable _woman would have accepted Charles's offer of marriage without a second thought. Especially in Miss Sapin's position.

Yet Miss Sapin seemed so very adamant not only about saving Charles from a disappointing marriage, but also about sparing him the humiliation of rejection. She in every way protected Charles from inconvenience – and at what expense? At the expense of her own future.

Darcy marveled at the selflessness, the true goodness of Miss Sapin's actions. And as he let out that sigh at the end of their exchange, his chest expanded with a new feeling of admiration. Of respect.

Yes, Miss Sapin would forever remain outside of his social sphere.

Yes, in the common view of society she was most certainly _not _a lady.

But to him, there was nothing more noble, more dignified, more worthy of being called a lady than that fallen woman's behavior that afternoon. And he thought with some melancholic sort of satisfaction that although he would never have any sort of relationship with her, he would forever retain that drop of respect for her human goodness.


	10. Desire and Nostalgia

Fitzwilliam Darcy looked up from his book and raised a quizzical brow. Charles Bingley, having stormed into the room and slumped onto the couch, let out a loud noise, halfway between a sigh and a moan.

"Oh Darcy!" He groaned dramatically.

"What is the matter, Charles? What tremendous uproar has brought you into my bedchamber?"

"Miss Sapin… oh God!"

"Oh yes, Miss Sapin," Mr. Darcy smiled, pretending to be completely oblivious to what had transpired between his friend and the lovely lady in the dressing room. "I should offer you my congratulations, I presume?"

"Don't mock me!"

"Mock you? Charles, what is the matter?" Of course, he was fully aware of what the matter was; but he would never admit to the ungentlemanly way he had eavesdropped on Charles and Asya.

"She… oh God, she… Darcy, I cannot marry her."

"Whyever not? Did she refuse you, Charles?"

"No, no, she was all sweetness and kindness. You don't understand. _I _cannot marry _her_."

"You mean that she is unsuitable for you?"

"Precisely."

Darcy let out a bitter laugh. "I thought I had spent hours attempting to convince you of that, but you were determined to have her. Pray tell me, what has changed your mind so swiftly?"

"She… she… Darcy, she is not a maiden." And Charles dropped his head, shaking it sadly.

Fitzwilliam was surprised at the amount of anger and indignation that Charles's comment raised within him. He remembered the way he had mulled over the grave decision whether or not to tell Charles of Miss Sapin's condition. And although his dear friend was in danger of entering a most disappointing marriage, Darcy had chosen not to reveal Miss Sapin's secret. Because it was _her _secret, not his to share.

And Charles? He just spat out such grievous piece of information about a lady who had been nothing but kind towards him. What was worse: Charles had absolutely no compelling reason to disclose such information. _He _did not even need to protect a friend.

"That is a very grave accusation," Darcy said finally, after moments of silence. He spoke the words slowly, in a measured tone that did not betray the full extent of his dissatisfaction.

"But it is true!" Charles exclaimed. "She told me so herself."

"Why did she tell you?" Darcy directed patiently.

"Well… she… she thought it would be best I knew… so that… I wouldn't… you know, so that I wouldn't do something I might regret."

"A very kind gesture on her part."

"Oh yes! I am tremendously grateful!"

"And is it this tremendous gratitude that led you to disclose this information to others?" Darcy surprised even himself with the amount of venom he had put into that sentence.

Charles paled. "Darcy, no, that's not… you know, I only told you… because… well, because you're my friend, and you asked, and you had warned me about her. So I thought you might want to know that you were correct. I won't tell another soul, I promise."

"I sincerely hope that you keep your word," Darcy responded coldly, with a dismissive shake of his head.

"Please, Darcy, don't be like that. I was in shocked, I –"

"Frankly, Charles, I don't care." And then, after a brief moment, he could not help but say what he truly thought: "You know, I may amend my earlier belief. Perhaps it is _you_ who is not worthy of _her_."

Bingley was startled by such an ungenerous statement form a friend who had always cared for him as a brother. But just as he opened his mouth to speak, Darcy's tired voice cut him off.

"Please, Charles, leave me alone."

A few uncertain steps and the soft sound of a door closing signified Bingley's departure.

Darcy signed and looked out of the window. His thoughts were confused and chaotic. His eyes wondered aimlessly over the trees and bushes outside. Until they landed on the most alluring sight any man could behold.

There, right outside his bedroom window, sat Miss Sapin, her golden curls falling freely over her sumptuous shoulders, revealed by a slim purple dress. No, not even a dress – a mere undergarment. Darcy's heart raced erratically as he beheld her exposed arms, shoulders, neck, legs…

The smallest slither of that goddess's naked skin was enough to drive him to distraction. To see so much at once was utterly overwhelming, and brought back with unprecedented vibrancy all the fantasies he had been so embarrassed to entertain over the past few weeks.

The gentleman within him rebelled at the preposterous idea of thus spying on a lady, and of so shamelessly deriving pleasure from it. But the man within him rejoiced. His hand traveled down of its own accord, and hesitantly released his aching need from the constricting breeches.

As he touched himself softly, uncertainly, his eyes remained trained on Asya. He remembered the heavenly feeling of her mouth against his lips, and then let himself imagine the way other parts of her would feel against those needy lips. How very sweet it would be to travel down her neck, then her arm, then her bosom, planting small, tender kisses along the way, nuzzling, worshipping every inch of her skin…

The release he reached was the most deliciously pleasant he had ever experienced. And the sense of disappointment and shame that followed was correspondingly all the more acute.

He glanced with disgust at his now soiled hand, and then turned his eyes back to the culprit. He beheld her now with sadness, not quite anger, but a silent lament. As if beseeching her to see the miserable state to which she had reduced him. And to release him form her hold. To let him be free.

But now that his vision was no longer obscured by his frustrated sexual need, he noticed some things in Asya that he had failed to see only moments before.

Her head was turned slightly away from him, resting softly on her knees, which she hugged tightly to her torso. She was curled up in a ball, and her shoulders shook ever so slightly. With mortification, Darcy realized that while he had pleasured himself to such dirty fantasies of her bare flesh, Miss Anastasia Sapin had been crying.

And with that realization, his heart ached even more. Not for him, though the shame he felt at his own behavior was devastating. But for her.

For her silent sobs, for her invisible tears, for her unknown sorrow.

How he wanted to know what troubled her. How he yearned to traverse the mere meters of distance between them, and engulf her in his arms – protect her, comfort her, love her. But that was as forbidden to him as her luscious body. And _that _hurt more.

On the other side of the glass, Asya lifted her head and shook it lightly. Then she gathered herself and stood up. Quietly, she crept back into the house, back into her chamber, unseen.

As she stood before a large mirror and traced with her hand the slim streaks of mascara below her red, swollen eyes, Asya mentally cursed herself for her silliness. Her sentimental nonsense.

What had she been thinking – putting on that modern sundress, leaving her hair undone, and going out into the garden?

The answer was simple enough: she was tired, she was lonely, she was hurt. She yearned and needed to go back home. And in one overwhelming bout of melancholy, she did everything she could to at least _feel _as if she were at home.

She put on the little purple sundress. As if its brightness would somehow cure her own dark mood.

She released her golden curls. As if seeing them fall freely would somehow set _her _free as well.

She went outside in such a state. As if defying the stuffy rules of this impossible society would somehow make them go away.

Suffice it to say, it did not work. She realized how silly she had been the moment she stepped out into the garden. Unable and unwilling to do anything at all, she merely curled up into a ball and began to cry. Letting out all the frustration she had felt since she mysteriously appeared in Lucas Lodge, and – worst of all – since she arrived at Netherfield Park.

Asya wondered what had brought about this mental breakdown. What was the breaking point?

_'Was it the way Charles had abandoned me so easily and hypocritically as soon as he heard that I am not a maiden? But no, that could not be: I did not want to marry him.'_

_'Was it the way Fitzwilliam has been avoiding me so stubbornly ever since I kissed him and confided in him? But no, I do not even like him.'_

While the reason for her sudden malaise was not entirely clear, one thing was evident: she could not remain in Netherfield Park any longer.

The next morning, Asya Sapin declared her firm intention to return to the Lucas Lodge immediately.

No one made an effort to protest. Caroline was all too glad to part with this inconvenient guest, who, in her opinion, had already stayed far longer than was necessary. Charles was happy to rid himself of the awkwardness that now surrounded his interactions with Asya. Louisa and Gerald never cared to begin with. And Fitzwilliam was too busy feeling conflicted and being angry with himself. He yearned to keep Asya near. He knew that it would be better, more prudent, to let her go. At the end, he said nothing, and did not even notice the slight sadness in her eyes at what she perceived to be his willful ostracism.

But once her things had been loaded onto the carriage, and Asya was about to step on, Darcy found himself right next to her. Of its own volition, his hand lightly touched her, and without thinking he handed her into the carriage.

The gesture seemed to strike them both.

Asya was perplexed for the duration of her journey. And only when she arrived at Lucas Lodge did she firmly order herself to erase Fitzwilliam Darcy completely from her mind.

Fitzwilliam could still feel the soft texture of her luminous skin against his hand for what felt like hours later. When he attempted to analyze what prompted him to touch her, to assist her, he concluded that the reason was two-fold. There was the physical attraction towards this woman, which he was beginning to find increasing impossible to fight. And then there was something else. A desire, perhaps, to show her that he did not scorn her, and that he was immensely grateful for the way she had spared Charles. That he respected her.


	11. The Ball at Netherfield Park

"Charlotte, please, I don't want to go," Asya pleaded.

"But… it would… it would be most ungracious. You stayed with them for a week; you are as closely acquainted with them as any of us. Surely, you cannot refuse to attend their ball!"

"I can and I do."

Charlotte was silent for a moment, then asked, tentatively: "Asya, what happened at Netherfield Park?"

Asya glanced at her briefly, then looked away in a hurry. But it was enough for Charlotte to detect a glimmer of panic in her friend's eyes.

"Nothing."

"I just don't understand," Charlotte said slowly. "You and Mr. Bingley had gotten on so well, then you hurt your foot and stayed at Netherfield for a week. But after you came back, you have been acting as complete strangers! You, I have noticed, have been avoiding the Netherfield party most assiduously. And Mr. Bingley, for his part, has not been seeking out your company either. _Something_ must have happened, Asya."

"Nothing happened of any import, I assure you," Asya answered quietly. "Please, Charlotte, speak no more of it: I shall not go to the Netherfield Ball, and that is final."

"It will be seen as a slight." Charlotte pointed out matter-of-factly.

"I doubt they would much care for my attendance." And Charlotte was puzzled to hear a tint of resentment in Asya's reply.

"You name is on the invitation. Refusing to attend without good cause would be seen as snubbing."

After a short pause, she continued:

"I _insist _that you come, Anastasia."

Still, Asya said nothing. Charlotte sighed, and spoke softer:

"No, I _ask _you to come with me. Please."

That, Asya could not deny. She smiled and acquiesced.

And two days later, as she stepped out of the carriage and walked into Netherfield once again, she was easily the most resplendent lady in attendance.

The sight of her, in a deep burgundy gown with a provocatively low décolleté and her slender waist accentuated by a thick golden ribbon, made Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy momentarily forget to breath, and then choke on his drink.

He noticed her, of course, the moment she stepped into the ballroom. Even after a full week of not seeing that face, his eyes seemed to search only for her.

'_A full week. Has it really been that long?'_

He felt as if it was only yesterday that he handed her into a carriage and watched as a pair of black horses took her swiftly away from Netherfield, and from him.

And yet it had been a full week. A torturous, pleasureless week. A week during which he had tried, with all his might, to forget her. But her image remained as fresh in his mind as it had been when her precious lips touched his own.

He had ignored her fastidiously during her last few days at Netherfield Park. Yet now that she was gone, he yearned for her presence so much that – on occasion – he would ride out early in the morning merely in hope of catching her on one of her walks. Alas, he was never so lucky.

And now, he beheld her again. In a burgundy gown that reminded him of a different dress – a small purple slip of a thing that revealed even more than her present risqué neckline. Darcy blushed in shame at that memory: at the insensitive way he had pleasured himself with the sight of her body, while his Asya was in distress.

_His Asya?_

She was not his. Never would she be his. That much was clear.

No matter how much he desired her, he would never again touch those full scarlet lips. Tomorrow, the day after perhaps, he would leave Hertfordshire and never come back. He was weak, not himself, in her presence. So he had no choice but to leave. And then _eventually _he would either forget her or learn to live with the unsatisfied longing. But _never _would he have her. She was not for him.

Thus determined, Darcy decided to afford himself one last guilty pleasure before forever withdrawing himself from this seductress. He approached her and bowed curtly. Anastasia's curtsy was equally frosty.

"Miss Sapin," he addressed her, wincing at his own overly formal tone. But he had learned by now that it was the only tone he could adopt with her without allowing his unwanted feelings to gush forth. "May I have the fourth dance?" He knew exactly which one was the waltz.

"I am sorry, Mr. Darcy," She responded coolly. "My card is full." Then curtsied once more, and walked away.

Asya hated herself for feeling frustrated. _'Why do I even care that Mr. Darcy did not deign to ask me to dance until my card was already full? Why should I mind that he was the last man to approach me, except Mr. Bingley of course? I should be rejoicing! I have always hated that man – and now I do not have to suffer a dance with him!'_

Asya hated herself for the fact that rather than remembering all the reasons she had for disliking Mr. Darcy through their acquaintance, she was remembering the way his inexperienced lips felt against hers. So soft, so tentative, so uncertain. And yet so eager, so accepting, so pleasurable.

Asya huffed. _'It was nothing more than a kiss!' _She had kissed plenty of men before. Why should it affect her? After a momentary deliberation, Asya decided that it was all because of her forced celibacy. That stupid thing with Mr. Darcy was the _only_ kiss she had in a month. And _that _was not right. How she hated the stifling society she now found herself in!

Her mood was somewhat brightened when she beheld, on the other side of the room, Mr. Bingley chatting animatedly with a shy, demure Jane Bennet. She had heard from Charlotte that Bingley had recently dined at Longbourn, and had subsequently begun paying some attention to Jane.

'_At least _something _is going right,' _Asya thought with some relief. She had felt guilty for drawing Bingley away from Jane, and was glad that at least that part of _Pride and Prejudice _sorted itself out. Now, if only she could also be replaced by Elizabeth Bennet and go home…

"Anastasia!"

Asya smiled and turned towards Mary Bennet, giving her a light embrace.

"Mary! It is a pleasure to see you."

"Indeed. It has been some days now since you have last dined at Longbourn. So tell me: how are you enjoying the ball?"

Asya laughed. "It has barely started. The dancing has not yet begun, and so I have yet to determine how unpleasant my partners will be. Ask me at dinnertime, and I may be able to supply a more satisfactory answer."

Mary laughed with her; then the two proceeded to chat animatedly for some time.

Once the orchestra was ready to begin to play, however, the girls were approached by a short, chubby man.

"Misssss Beeennet," he greeted, drawing out the name in a saccharine, sleazy way. "I believe the time has come to begin the dance." And he bowed so low that Asya wondered he did not fall.

Asya shuddered. _'Is this…? Oh no! But certainly, it cannot be. No, he cannot be _this _bad!'_

Her cheeks flashing red, Mary mumbled:

"Allow me to introduce Mr. Collins, my_ cousin_. Mr. Collins, this is my friend Anastasia Sapin."

"Deeeliiiighted," Again: that sleazy elongation and that ludicrous bow.

"Likewise, I'm sure," Asya gave a brisk curtsy. "Pray forgive me, Mr. Collins, for detaining your partner a moment longer. I would like to speak to her a few words in confidence. It will be very brief, I assure you, and I will return her to you before the dance begins."

Without giving the strange man a chance to reply, Asya swiftly led Mary away.

"Mary, just one word: please tell me you would never seriously consider that man! Please, just say it now!"

Mary blushed again, and shifted uncomfortably. And then threw herself into Asya's arms. "Oh Asya! It is so awful! Mama wants to marry me off to him, but there is no way… no, never… I could never accept such a man."

"Promise me," Asya demanded sternly.

"I promise."

"Good." And Asya embraced her fondly. "Don't worry, everything will be alright. I see that Jane is getting close to Mr. Bingley; perhaps there could be something there. Somehow, you will all manage. There is no need to sacrifice yourself for your family, Mary. At least not yet. And not to _such _a man."

Mary smiled. "Thank you." Somewhat more encouraged, she then managed to brave a set with Mr. Collins without dying of embarrassment.

Between the third and fourth dance, Anastasia was approached by Charlotte, who whispered conspiratorially:

"I know your secret now."

Asya involuntarily shuddered. "W-what secret?"

"Why you and Mr. Bingley don't get along anymore."

"A-and w-why is t-that?" She managed to stutter out, mortified. Had the news of her lack of virginity spread through the entire neighborhood?

"Because of Mr. Darcy, of course!"

"What?" Now _that _was not what Asya had expected to hear.

"Oh, come on! Don't play coy here, Asya. No one could fail to notice the way he had been staring at you the entire evening. Clearly, you've managed to attract both men and inspire some kind of jealousy between the two. At the end, Mr. Darcy must have won out, and Mr. Bingley withdrew his suit. I'm not surprised, really. Mr. Darcy _is _the better looking of the two – such a tall, stately man. _And _he is richer – ten thousand a year is what I heard. You have done well, Anastasia. You have done very well indeed."

Involuntarily, Asya glanced to the corner where the tall man stood. It was true: his eyes met hers. But she was sure that Charlotte was misinterpreting his stare. After all, he had made it abundantly clear that he wanted to have nothing to do with her. Had he not steadfastly avoided her company at Netherfield Park ever since she confided in him?

So why was he staring at her now? Asya knew it was not out of any sort of admiration. They had never really gotten along; and she was sure he positively hated her now. Perhaps he was watching out for her to make sure she did not attempt to entrap any of the neighborhood gentlemen, now that his own friend Mr. Bingley was safe. Asya sighed.

"You are mistaken, Charlotte. There is _nothing _between me and Mr. Darcy. If anything, we rather dislike each other than anything else."

And she was saved from any further argument on that score by the beginning of the next dance.

It was the waltz. The waltz that _he _had wanted. Fitzwilliam scowled as he watched Asya twirl in the arms of a young, handsome officer.

He had spent an entire evening doing nothing but watching her.

He had seen the way her smiles – radiant as always – were not as genuine as the ones he had witnessed before. She chatted, and laughed, and smiled. But he, who had absorbed her with such an unhealthy devotion, could see that she was not entirely content. He wondered why.

He had seen the way her burgundy gown clung to her curves, and the way the golden ribbon tied into a bow that fell over her sumptuous bottom. And he smiled at the memory of that heavenly bottom rubbing against his desire when he carried her, despite her vehement protests, to Netherfield Park. How happy, how carefree he had been back then! How full of hope, of possibilities!

He had seen the way her golden curls were even more brilliant, more resplendent, than the gold of the ribbon. And he wondered how it was possible that she seemed even more beautiful to him now than ever before.

And now he felt, once again, the bittersweet torture of seeing her waltz with another man. She was magnificent. Divine.

_Irresistible._

Even before the music came to a full stop, he was moving in long strides across the ballroom. Towards her. As she curtsied politely to her partner, he was already mere steps away.

Asya was glad that the dance had ended. She had never enjoyed a waltz less. Her partner, she found, was as dull and insipid as the rest of the militia she had danced with that night. Every dance – filled with the same conversation. Every step – accompanied by the same platitudes. Inane jokes, clichéd compliments. How tired she was of this whole masquerade.

In an attempt to distract herself from such somber musings, Asya glanced at her card. Tried to remember who was this Mr. Parker who had claimed the next quadrille. But for the life of her, the name did not ring a bell. He would be, she was sure, just like the rest. She desperately needed a drink.

If Asya were truly, entirely honest with herself, she would have perhaps admitted the true reason behind her predisposition to be so dissatisfied with her dancing partners that night: not one of them matched the intensity of feeling provoked within her by a certain Mr. Darcy. But she was far from honest with herself on that front. And such an unfathomable thought did not even cross her mind.

She gulped down the glass of water, and turned now to get some wine.

But her slender hand did not have time to reach the decanter with the desired burgundy liquid, before she felt herself grasped. Strong, forceful fingers dug themselves into her shoulders, and she was forcibly turned. Asya let out a barely audible gasp. It almost hurt.

She raised her eyes anxiously and beheld her aggressor. Before her stood Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, in all his glory albeit slightly disheveled. But the minor disturbance of his rich dark brown curls was nothing compared to the storm Asya saw in his eyes. Those eyes filled with so much emotion, that she could not even name the full range. But a single feeling dominated all others and shone urgently from those eyes: desperation.

"Dance with me," He breathed out. And Asya trembled as she felt that breath caress the side of her right cheek, the tip of her upturned nose. He was far too close for propriety. He was far too close for her comfort. He was simply far too close.

"Dance with me." He was begging.

"Mr. D-Darcy," She stammered out. And he winced, a glimpse of pain momentarily distorting his handsome face. He detected confusion in her tone – but that was all. No excitement, no desire, no passion.

He was brought back to reason by her words. Those confused words. Puzzled words. _Strange_ words. He dropped his arms from her shoulders as if they had been burned.

And he ran away from her even faster than he had come.

Asya shrugged her shoulders, as if dismissing the confusing man's antics. And then she shook them vigorously, as if shaking off the feeling of his strong hands.

She danced the quadrille with Mr. Parker. A neighboring landowner of about thirty or thirty-five. He spoke blandly of the weather and his harvest. He praised her dancing skill, her dress, her complexion, in the same words as her previous partners. He was, to put it shortly – the same as everyone else. And for the life of her, she could not remember ever having encountered Mr. Parker before.

Fitzwilliam Darcy watched the dance from a distance, leaning languidly against a pillar. The change in Asya Sapin's dancing was so small that it would be imperceptible to anyone who had not been observing her for weeks with minutest detail. But he saw it at once: she was different after their short conversation, more tense. _'Is that because of me?_' And he scolded himself mentally for rejoicing in her tenseness.

But really, what else could he do? He wished so desperately that he could affect her as much as she did him.

Darcy let out a heavy sigh.

Had he honestly thought, only an hour before, that he could simply leave her and walk away?


	12. The Lucas Lodge Proposal

The morning after Netherfield Ball, Anastasia Sapin was surprised to find the house completely empty when she awoke. She was usually not one to sleep in late; on the contrary, she tended to return from her morning walk before the rest of the inhabitants of Lucas Lodge descended to breakfast. But not today. Today, she awoke at eleven, and _still _felt heavy and exhausted from the night before.

A neat note from Charlotte awaited her in the drawing room:

'_My Dearest Asya,_

_I have gone with Mama to visit the Bennets. We shall return by lunchtime, I hope. There should be breakfast left for you in the dining room._

_Enjoy your rest!_

_Yours,_

_Charlotte'_

Despite the warm tone of the note, Asya felt that not everything was quite well between her and Charlotte. There was something strange about the way her friend left without waking her, and she wondered briefly if Charlotte was hiding something from her.

But already feeling less cheerful than she would have liked, Asya decided not to trouble herself any further by mulling over Charlotte's behavior. She grabbed a quick breakfast, and then retired to the library, where she at last found some peace in _Candide_.

An hour later, she heard a faint knock on the door.

"Come in."

Sarah, the maid who typically tended to her, entered with a slightly perplexed expression, and announced:

"Mr. Darcy is here to see you, ma'am."

Asya raised a surprised eyebrow. She felt a light tremble pass through her body as she recalled that strange man's actions from the night before. The way he had acted seemed almost possessed. Asya was not an innocent by any means, and had no doubt that Mr. Darcy was strongly attracted to her. But his behavior was so contradictory – so hot one minute and cold the next – that she did not quite know what to make of it. _'What could he want from me now?'_

As she descended the stairs and entered the drawing room, she saw the handsome gentleman pacing rather nervously along the windows.

"Mr. Darcy," She greeted curtly.

He did not reply. Only glanced at her briefly, and sped up his pacing.

His next words came so suddenly, that Asya at first wondered if she may have imagined them.

"In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I desire you!"

He stopped pacing, and stood before her, his blazing eyes not leaving hers.

"I know it is ridiculous, preposterous even. But I can no longer fight it. Almost from the fist moment of our acquaintance, I have felt for you a desire far stronger than I had ever felt for any other woman. I tried – oh yes I have tried! – to forget you, to fight you. But it was all in vain."

Asya was too stunned to speak, so Mr. Darcy continued, taking one step closer to her:

"I know it goes against everything I believe. For twenty-eight years I have strived to achieve the highest level of propriety and morals, and it all came crushing down with one touch of your luscious lips. I am ashamed, disgusted, appalled. But I can do nothing about it. I _need _you, Miss Sapin."

He paused to catch his breath.

"I need you even though you are exactly the kind of woman I would never wish to associate with. I need you even though you drive me to want to do things I am ashamed to even think of. I need you even though I hate myself for being reduced to the kind of man that would keep a mistress. Your social station is far beneath mine; your personal condition is unspeakable. You are a fallen woman. But none of that matters anymore. I give up; I surrender – I beg you to relieve my suffering and to consent to be my mistress."

Asya blinked in surprised, her mind drawing a blank, her head feeling weak and dizzy.

"Your… mistress?"

"Yes. I know it is incredible; I can hardly believe it myself. I have never imagined that I could fall so low. But I can no longer resist you."

Then he suddenly dropped to his knees before her, and exclaimed half-anxiously half-hopefully:

"Make love to me, Asya!"

Those desperate words of a desperate man made Asya feel for a moment – but only for that one brief moment – something other than fury. Here he was, a rich, handsome, and powerful man: brought down to his knees begging her to make love to him. _She _was the only one to break down his twenty-eight years of utter propriety. _She _was the one whom he needed so much that he was willing to give up all his principles only to have her. And for that one little moment, in a way, she was flattered.

But none of it came even close to being enough to make up for the insult he caused her.

Calmly, she took a few steps away.

"I am not quite sure, Mr. Darcy, what the proper etiquette is for a response in such a case. I cannot thank you for your insulting proposition. Nor can I express any regret in potentially causing you pain with my refusal, since you obviously had no squabbles in causing _me _pain."

Darcy raised himself to his feet.

"What do you mean?" Asya heard a tint of defensiveness in his tone.

"Do I really need to spell it out to you?" Her calmness was now giving way to frustration.

He was silent for a few moments, schooling his features into an impassive mask and leveling his tone.

"Do you mean that you choose to refuse me?"

"Precisely." She turned to leave the room.

"And why, may I ask?"

Here, Asya could no longer control herself. She spun around abruptly, facing him, burning him with the intense and hateful look of her eyes.

"Why? Did you just ask me _why_ I will not consent to a proposition that any decent lady would find absolutely, totally, and horribly insulting?"

"But you… you're not –"

"I am not a decent lady?" She snickered bitterly.

"You are not a maiden."

"And that, according to you, means that it is fine for any man to insult me?"

"I did not mean to insult you."

"Your proposal, Mr. Darcy, was the most humiliating and insulting thing I have ever heard. If you truly did not mean to insult me, then why did you choose to tell me that your desire for me goes against everything you believe? That wanting to be with me is regarded by you as something to be ashamed of? But that hardly matters; it is only the icing on the cake. The greatest insult lay in the offer itself. If you had the _slightest _bit of respect for me, you would not have asked me to be your mistress. "

He sighed; then spoke to her as if he was the one being reasonable:

"Miss Sapin, if I am not mistaken, you have slept with men before?"

She did not deign that with a response. But none was really necessary.

He continued slowly: "And what, pray tell me, makes _my _proposal more insulting than theirs were?"

Asya gasped. "Do you really think, Mr. Darcy, that I have already been someone's _mistress_?"

"What else am I to think, pray tell me? You are not widowed, as far as I know – since you go by _Miss _Sapin… though of course, I have no confirmation that that is in fact your real name. Is it?"

She huffed. "Of course it is!"

"Well then, you were never married, yet you are not a maiden… you have shared a bed with a man out of wedlock before. So I cannot see why _my _proposition is so insulting to you."

Asya's cheeks burned red, and her eyes flashed wildly. _Never _had she felt so angry before. She felt nauseous and cold. She was, to put it plainly, far more hurt than she would have liked to admit. The way he treated her, the way he spoke to her, the way he obviously regarded her as a mere perssession – and a spoilt one at that – sickened her to the core.

"Mr. Darcy," She addressed him now quietly. Too weak to argue vehemently anymore. "The men with whom I had slept before never asked me to be their _mistress_. It was all at a different place and in a different time – so perhaps it is difficult for you to comprehend. But I only ever slept with men who _loved _me. Not ones who wished merely to possess my body, only to discard it whenever it suits them."

"I never said that I would –"

"Then what would you do? When you do marry?"

At this, he actually did look sheepish. He had obviously not thought quite that far ahead. "Well… I would… I would set you up with a generous allowance. You will always be comfortable, and will never want for anything."

"Precisely," She laughed half-bitterly half-sadly. "That is all you think about. Your own pleasure, and money. And _that _is why your proposal was so insulting. You want to _buy _me. And I swear to you that I have _never _slept with a man who viewed me as a possession to be purchased!"

"But none of them ever married you!" He countered defensively.

If possible, Asya's face was suddenly twisted with even more pain. She thought of John, and she missed him a thousand times more now than before. And she hated the tall, dark man before her even more for evoking the memory of her John – and for somehow attempting to sully it.

Her voice was simply tired when she replied:

"No, none of them married me. But not one of them had explicitly decided against marrying me even before becoming involved with me. In fact, the last man I was with – a saint of a man, but you would not understand, how could you? – and I were going to be married shortly. Unfortunate circumstances separated us, but I still harbor a hope that I will see him again before long…"

Darcy felt a sharp pang of pain at her words – at those words of tenderness, of praise, towards some other man. She was in love, or at least she had been in love, and not with him. But he did not have much time to dwell on his jealousy before her next words:

"If you had come here saying that you _loved _me, and not merely expressing your desire," She hypothesized almost wistfully, "If you had come here asking me to marry you, and not asking me to become your possession. If you had come here regarding me as your equal, and not highlighting with your every word your fervent belief in your own superiority… Then perhaps, just perhaps, my answer would have been different. But as it is – your proposal is vulgar, low, and offensive. You had, from the earliest moments of our acquaintance, impressed me with your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others. But even from _you _I had expected better. You disgust me, Mr. Darcy."

He was so seething with anger at her last words, that he hardly cared how his reply might hurt her:

"Surely, Miss Sapin, you must know that even the mere _thought _of me marrying someone like you – someone in _your condition_ – is quite plainly _unthinkable_. Ludicrous, preposterous, impossible. No, someone like me could _never _be married to someone like you! The position of my mistress is the most you could ever aspire to."

"Well, I am glad you feel that way, Mr. Darcy. Because on my part, you are the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to bed."

There was a short pause, in which they regarded each other, each pair of eyes saying volumes, yet neither willing to understand the other. At last, he pronounced coldly:

"You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. I bid you good day."

And Darcy hurriedly left the house – after one final glance at her angry eyes, which seemed especially fine when filled with passion.


	13. The Longbourn Proposal

'_Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry,' _Asya chanted to herself. She pressed her eyes tightly shut in an attempt to keep out the unwanted tears.

'_Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.' _It was the single thought she repeated mentally, knowing that if she allowed herself to think of anything else at all – either pleasant or not – she would break apart into a weeping, sobbing mess.

'_Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.' _She shook and pinched herself bitterly, fighting the treacherous salty drops that pulled between her closed eyelids and now threatened to roll down her cheeks.

'_Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry!' _And unable to stay a moment longer in that room where _he _had been, she rushed out. Losing her carefully controlled, rational calm for the first time in years, Anastasia Sapin sprinted away from the house where _he _had thrown every possible insult at her, and burned her with his lustful disapproving eyes as if she were nothing more than a whore.

As Longbourn came into view, Asya slowed down to a leisurely walk, and carefully regulated her breathing. _In and out. In and out. _She soon stopped panting, and her heart rate fell back to a semblance of normal. And if there was still a storm inside her aching head, she was sure no one could tell.

She pulled on her masterful smile.

Then pulled back her slender shoulders.

And the girl who walked into the front garden of Longbourn was healthy, bright, and cheerful. She was the same smart, controlled, selfish creature who had led a most perfect life for twenty-four years. She no longer knew or cared for the chauvinistic pig who had offered to purchase her body.

But Asya's newfound comfort was not meant to last long. For she beheld, right there in the garden, the one proposal that was _almost _as preposterous and insulting as the one she had been subjected to half an hour before.

Mr. Edmund Collins was on one knee, and his short-fingered greasy hands were holding tightly onto the pale right hand of Miss Charlotte Lucas.

"Charlotte!" Asya called, and rushed to the couple. Her despair was easily audible in her voice.

Charlotte glanced up, and colored.

"Anastasia." She seemed at a loss of anything else to say.

"Charlotte – wh… what is going on?"

Charlotte drew a deep breath, before answering calmly: "Mr. Collins has made me a most generous offer of marriage." Then she pulled on an insincere smile, and continued cheerfully: "You may congratulate me, my friend."

Mr. Collins grinned, and began rising to his feet. "So you accept, my lady?"

Before Charlotte had a chance to confirm, Asya suddenly stepped right between the two young people.

"Wait!" She turned first to Collins: "This is a very important decision, Mr. Collins. You would excuse me, if I wish to speak with my friend before she gives you a final answer."

"Miss Sapin –"

"But Asya – "f

But she did not give either of them a chance to finish. She turned to Charlotte, and spoke in a grave tone that brooked no opposition:

"A few words, Charlotte. Please."

And with a firm grasp on her friend's wrist, Asya led the disoriented Charlotte away.

"Charlotte, are you out of your senses?" She yelled as soon as they were sufficiently removed from the unwanted Mr. Collins.

"Anastasia, I ask you not to take that tone with me."

"Oh, come on! Don't act all stuffy and offended. You _knew _I would not approve of this, of course you did! I had guessed there was something you weren't telling me from the way you left this morning..."

"Nonsense. I was not keeping anything from you. I have nothing to be ashamed of, Asya!"

Asya shook her head.

"You were already planning this at the ball, were you not? Now that I think back to it, you had two dances with that man last night… Tell me, was he not set on proposing to Mary?"

"He was," Charlotte replied grumpily and turned away.

"And?"

"And he did."

"She rejected him?" Asya exclaimed, unable to keep the joy out of her voice.

"Apparently."

"Good girl!"

"Asya, you are being unreasonable. If _you _don't fancy Mr. Collins, that is no reason to wish to prevent everyone else from marrying him."

Asya sighed. "Charlotte, can you really say that you _do _fancy Mr. Collins?"

"He is well-positioned in society, with Lady Catherine de Bourgh's patronage, and he will inherit Longbourn upon Mr. Bennet's death. I dare say I will be very comfortable with him."

"I did not ask whether you fancied his money, Charlotte. Do you fancy the man himself?"

"I have no strong feelings towards him either way. But that is hardly relevant."

"_Hardly relevant?_ Charlotte, how can you possible speak that way?"

Charlotte huffed irritably. "Anastasia, just because you have men like Mr. Darcy pining after you, you seem to have some pretty-colored notions of love and matrimony. Not everyone is as fortunate as you."

"Do not mention that name," Asya whispered.

"What did you say?"

"Do not ever say that man's name in my hearing," She repeated slightly louder. Her words were still soft and quiet, but imbued with unusual firmness. And the cold determination that shone from her eyes sent a chill down Charlotte's back.

"I – I'm sorry. Is anything the matter?"

"No." At Charlotte's continued quizzical look, she added reluctantly: "It is nothing of any import, Charlotte. I have my reasons for disliking that man, and I wish you never to mention him in my hearing again. Understood?"

Charlotte nodded. Too stunned by her friend's unexpected hostility to press any further.

The determination remained in Asya's tone, even when the hatred receded, as she turned back to her purpose: "Now about Mr. Collins, Charlotte. I see that before I arrived, you were set on accepting his proposal of marriage. I will not attempt to dissuade you, because even if I succeed, I would run the risk of facing your lifelong resentment as a result. Instead, I only ask one thing: postpone your decision until you visit his parsonage and meet Lady Catherine. Ask him to take you on a visit, with your parents perhaps, before you sign a lifelong contract. Please, I urge you as your friend: see what that life would be like, before committing to it irrevocably."

Charlotte saw the genuine concern in Asya's eyes, and heard the reasonable arguments her friend made. Anastasia's proposition seemed sound and logical, so she took Asya's hand in hers, and replied:

"I thank you for your concern, Anastasia. And even though I know my answer already, I will do as you suggest. You are right: it cannot hurt either way." Then she smiled, and added: "Would you like to come with me?"

"Thank you, Charlotte!" Asya exclaimed, and at last let out a relieved sigh. She hugged her friend tightly to her breast, and felt an overwhelmingly warm, fuzzy feeling – at having saved one soul from a miserable life.

But as Charlotte's words sank in, Anastasia's countenance darkened. While the thought of accompanying her friend on a visit to Kent, and meeting the ridiculous – and hence invariably amusing - Lady Catherine de Bourgh was very appealing, Asya suddenly remembered about the illustrious lady's nephew. And the thought of seeing _him _again was all but pleasant. No, she never wanted to behold that man again – he incited in her far stronger feelings of hatred than anyone else ever had.

"Charlotte, perhaps…" But she stopped herself when she saw Charlotte's questioning gaze. _'How can I explain to Charlotte that I cannot come, without telling her everything?'_

"What is it, Asya?"

Anastasia leveled her breathing, and ordered herself to thinking rationally. Remembering the storyline of _Pride and Prejudice _more carefully, she recalled that Elizabeth Bennet ran into Mr. Darcy in Kent in _April_, at Easter time. And at present, it was only the end of November. He would have no reason to be there. And suddenly, the thought of an excursion to Kent was once again tremendously appealing. It would get her away from Hertfortshire – from this place where she had already suffered plenty of misery, from those haunting memories of her time at Netherfield Park, and from the somber reminders of the things she had been subjected to hearing that very morning at Lucas Lodge.

Nothing could possibly be better for restoring her cheerfulness, than some jolly laughter inspired by a good little dose of Mr. Collins and Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

And so she smiled back at Charlotte, and pronounced quite excitedly:

"Nothing, Charlotte, nothing at all. I will be very glad to accompany you. Oh, what a pleasant trip it shall be!"


	14. A Most Magnificent Lady

Fields, valleys, prairies.

Trees, houses, horses.

Yellowing leaves, withering flowers, soft droplets of rain.

Asya smiled at it all, marveling at the varied, beautiful landscapes spanning out in front of the carriage window.

She drew a deep breath, and relished in the cool autumn air, so soft yet crisp, and with a tint of amber.

A gentle smile touched the corners of her lips. And a bubbling happiness planted itself warmly in her chest.

She wanted to dance; she wanted to sing, she wanted to live.

_'At last!'_

That month and a half in Hertfortshire were the most oppressive in her life. And now, how glad she was to be free! To live again, to laugh again.

It had taken all of two weeks since Collins' inopportune proposal – but now, at last, they were arriving in Kent. Now, at last, Asya was leaving Hertfortshire. '_To never return.'_

Of that, she was already certain. Prior to their departure, she had spoken to Sir Lucas, and shared her determination to quit their home after the trip. He attempted to persuade her to reconsider. But she was easily the more stubborn of the two, and after a few words of regret, he consented. He gave her the two thousand pounds left by her father, and his own blessing.

To be honest, the last two weeks of her stay at the Lucas Lodge were nowhere nearly as distressing as the first month. The morning after his offensive proposal, Asya was gratified to know that Mr. Darcy had urgently quit Netherfield Park. What was more – Mr. Bingley remained, and his attentions to Jane increased with each day. Everything was going smoothly.

Still, Asya was glad to quit the place that invoked in her such saddening, maddening memories.

"There it is! The magnificent estate of her Ladyship, my noble patroness Lady Catherine de Bourgh!"

Asya looked in the direction Mr. Collins was pointing, and suppressed a laugh. There, right before her eyes, stood the most ostentatious home she had ever seen. It was not merely large, it was gigantic. But it was not magnificent – it was ridiculous. The over-ornate columns and buttresses gave it a shallow, cheap Las Vegas look. There was nothing elegant about Rosings Park. Asya Sapin had always envisaged that estate as presumptuous and ludicrous. And to her cheerful amusement, it did not disappoint.

"Oh my!" She exclaimed with fake amazement. "What a grand estate indeed! Charlotte, have you ever seen such refined taste?" And she slyly elbowed her friend.

Charlotte blushed. Over the past few weeks, she had come to know her intended fiancé better, and became increasingly embarrassed by his preposterous grandeur and ridiculous antics. She was almost beginning to second-guess her decision to marry Mr. Collins, but would not let such silly thoughts enter her mind. She had never been romantic; a comfortable life was all she required. And she could have that with Mr. Collins, however lacking that man's intellect might be.

And it was certainly lacking.

To her chagrin, Mr. Collins carried on speaking in a most slimey, saccharine tone:

"Indeed, Miss Sapin, Rosings Park is magnificent. It is, I am sure, the grandest estate you will ever behold. Just think of the honor you have – to stay in such proximity to such a great estate! And the condescension that Lady Catherine has shown to _me _is even more impressive. She has visited my parsonage in person on numerous occasions, and even made most amazing suggestions as to the running and improvement of my humble abode. What is more, I have already dined at Rosings Park _twice _in the last three months!"

Asya was now having trouble suppressing her sniggers. And despite the uncomfortable look and rosy blush of embarrassment on her friend's face, she could not resist the temptation to egg Mr. Collins on:

"Oh my! That is indeed a marvelous honor. Is there any chance, Mr. Collins, that we might be invited to dine at Rosings during our stay?" She gave a broad smile that belied the sarcasm of her words.

Mr. Collins beamed with pride, and set up straighter, at having such a receptive audience. He then turned his expression more serious, and answered gravely:

"I rather doubt it, Miss Sapin. Lady Catherine is so far beyond us in rank and stature, that it would be imprudent to expect an invitation. If she does choose to honor us with – not dinner, but perhaps a tea at her mansion – it will be a most marvelous privilege. But do not make yourself uneasy, my fair friend; to bring you pleasure, I shall do everything in my power to secure an invitation to Rosings." Here he bowed lightly, and smiled in what he must have thought was a flirtatious manner.

Anastasia smiled back briefly, and immediately turned away, to spare the man the sight of her openly laughing at his absurdity.

Charlotte was, by this point, utterly embarrassed. She mentally cursed Mr. Collins for his lack of understanding, and wished fervently that he could somehow be persuaded not to speak. But she then scolded herself for such ungenerous thoughts towards her future husband, and resolved to behave more kindly towards him – even if Asya was set on exposing his ridiculousness and mocking it so persistently.

That resolution proved incredibly difficult to maintain over the days and weeks that followed.

Each new day revealed a novel aspect to Mr. Collins' silliness. It was becoming increasingly unbearable for Charlotte. And even Asya appeared to lose her initial interest in making fun of the man. She now exposed his character faults merely to make Charlotte reconsider the match. And Charlotte was growing angry at her friend for such cunning attempts.

Some five days into their stay at the parsonage, Charlotte's younger sister, Maria Lucas, hurriedly burst into the sitting room where the two girlfriends were engaged in embroidery and chatter.

"Oh, Charlotte, Anastasia! Pray make haste and come into the dining room, for there is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make haste, and come down this moment!"

Charlotte and Asya exchanged questioning glances, and hurried downstairs. To their utmost disappointment, the sight that had so excited young Maria was nothing more than an elaborate carriage in the parsonage driveway.

"And that is all?" Asya began to question the young girl incredulously, but then she beheld the elderly lady exiting the carriage. Her attention turned immediately to the newcomer, her hazel eyes sparkling with curiosity.

The lady of Rosings Park exceeded Asya's expectations just as much as the manor itself.

Her gown was so large and pretentious, that Asya sardonically wondered how the lady could even walk. The mismatched precious stones that adorned her neck, her shoulders, her head, her arms, her ears, her dress – and absolutely everything else – were so ostentatious that it was a marvel that she could stand under all the weight. And yet stand she did – and with so much uprightness, her chin held so high – that she appeared as if she was ready to fall over backwards any minute.

But the best were the lady's manners. She exited her carriage quite regally, and then brusquely stepped into the parsonage, as if she entirely owned the place. She threw one disapproving look at the assembled ladies, and without waiting for introductions, addressed Collins in a disgruntled, impatient tone:

"Which is your little lady, Collins?" At this, her nose rose marginally higher, and Asya thought she heard a slight snicker of disgust.

Trembling under his noble patroness's stern gaze, Collins hurried to take Charlotte's hand.

"Allow me to introduce, your Ladyship, my friend and fiancée, Charlotte Lucas."

Charlotte frowned at the presumption the man displayed. She had made it quite clear that her visit to Kent was meant as a means to get to know him better – and to decide whether or not she wished to enter a marriage with him. She had emphasized several times that she had not made any final decision to that regard. And yet here he was – introducing her as his future wife.

"Very well, very well," Lady Catherine muttered under her breath. "I suppose she will do. A plain, quiet sort of girl, nothing special. Not too much spirit, but hopefully sufficient breeding. Perfect for a clergyman of modest means. And a gentlewoman, I suppose?"

Charlotte, who was normally of a pleasant, mild temperament, found herself positively seething. _'How dare this woman speak of me in such a manner – and when I am right before her eyes?'_

Yet Collins continued as if nothing happened, and as if no insult had been done to the woman he was supposedly wooing.

"Oh yes, Lady Catherine, most certainly a gentlewoman. Her father, Sir Lucas, has been presented at St. James' Court. He is also visiting here, but is not at home at present."

Charlotte's estimation of her intended future husband, however low it may have fallen over the past several weeks, had never been quite as awful as it was now. Here he was, completely oblivious to the slight caused to her – and on the contrary, eagerly taking the side of this insulting lady! _'Is this what life with him will always be like?' _She began to wonder seriously.

"And who is this?" Lady Catherine's shrill voice asked, as her eyes landed on Asya.

Without giving the silly man a chance to speak again, Asya gave a light curtsy. But that gesture of politeness was belied by a slight lift in her chin. The message was quite clear: she was not intimidated; she was not inferior. Lady Catherine lifted her eyebrows lightly at such a display.

"Miss Anastasia Sapin of St. Petersburg, madam." Then a momentary pause for emphasis, and calmly: "And you are?"

Even if she was perfectly, entirely, completely aware of the lady's identity, the question was absolutely necessary. It screamed loud and clear that to _Asya _this woman was nothing. That in this room of people whom Lady Catherine chose to slight, mock, and despise, there was at least one who did know – and hardly cared to know – who she was.

Asya's words achieved their purpose. Lady Cathedine narrowed her eyes as she beheld the girl for several seconds, debating whether to honor her with a response.

_'This golden-haired girl is slim, young, and unpleasantly beautiful. She comports herself with frustrating poise and confidence. She moves with distressing grace, and is dressed with insufferable elegance. She comes from abroad, and not from that hole that is Hertfortshire countryside. Has she perhaps even been at the Russian court…'?_

"Lady Catherine de Bourgh, of Rosings Park."

The words were terse and forced; but they were there nonetheless. Asya gave an equally curt nod, and then pressed her lips tightly together – so as to avoid smiling at her victory. _Anastasia Sapin: 1; Catherine de Bourgh: 0_.

The next hour was passed in conversation exclusively between Lady Catherine and Mr. Collins. If it could even be termed a conversation… a monologue, perhaps, would be more fitting.

Lady Catherine gave grumpy instructions about the changes Collins should be making to the house, the garden, the servants, the furniture. She criticized everything, and praised nothing.

Collins could not manage anything more than eager nods of agreement at his patroness's every condescending word. He attempted at first to offer his effusive gratitude, but Lady Catherine was not in a mood to listen to his simpering. So he had to content himself instead with busying himself in writing down, in minutest detail, her ladyship's every invaluable suggestion.

Anastasia observed the two, and could hardly suppress her amusement. Collins' absurdity she already knew well. But Lady Catherine was a novelty. And adding to Asya's delight was the nagging suspicious that the bulk of her ladyship's impertinent suggestions and complaints were due to _her_, to Asya. Lady Catherine was undoubtedly irritated at encountering a person whom she could not easily intimidate – and of whom she knew not what to make. So she took out her frustration on those that were more vulnerable. By acting as the divine queen reigning over Collins' parsonage, she somehow sought to assuage her wounded sense of grandeur by affirming her full control.

And so it was with a slight smirk tugging at the corners of her lips that Asya noticed Lady Catherine looking directly at her as she at last took her leave, and pronounced brusquely:

"I shall see you at tea tomorrow, at Rosings Park."


	15. Tea at Rosings Park

"Are you ready for tea, my dear?" Asya asked her friend with excessive sweetness.

The cold glare that Charlotte shot her in response pleased Asya greatly. She could not help but rejoice at Charlotte's discomfort the day before. Not out of any sort of maliciousness. No, far from it! Asya had come to love Charlotte dearly, almost as a sister. She only wanted the best for her friend.

And Anastasia Sapin was fully convinced that Mr. Collins was _not _the best.

The way Charlotte flinched and grimaced at his preposterous display in front of Lady Catherine – at the way he groveled in front of the lady and thought nothing of the insults she had thrown at his intended bride – gave Asya hope. _'Perhaps,' _she thought hopefully, _'perhaps she is finally realizing that life with Collins would be far from perfect. Perhaps she will even understand that she is worthy of far, far better.'_

And so, for Charlotte's own benefit, Asya persevered in agitating her friend.

"Why so sullen, my friend?"

"Oh, Asya, don't mock me!" Charlotte at last exclaimed in frustration.

"Mock you? Why, I would never… whatever do you speak of, Charltote?"

Charlotte let out an exasperated sigh. "Oh come on, Asya! You're a smart girl – I'm sure that you know that I would much rather never see that woman again."

Asya held back a chuckle. "Well, dear, I'm afraid that cannot be attained. You better get used to Lady Cat, if you intend to make this little parsonage your home. After all, it is quite clear that _she _is – and always will be – the mistress of this house."

"Asya!" Charlotte could no longer control her annoyance, frustration, and desperation. "Stop it, Asya! Now you are just being cruel. I know you don't approve of Mr. Collins, and I can see straight through your game – you are trying to make me decide not to stay here… And I too am beginning to question my decision now, but… but I do not want to, Asya. This makes things so confusing, so complicated. I only want everything to be simple and comfortable."

"Whatever you say, Charlotte," Asya murmured, sadly – all trace of her merriment now gone from her tone. "But I just want you to realize that you have other options. I have told you that after this trip, I shall not be coming back to Lucas Lodge. I want to see more of England; I want to explore more of the world. And you, my dearest friend, are always welcome to join me. Just… remember that."

Charlotte could not help but smile at her friend's sincere, caring words. How could she stay mad at Asya, when that girl was only trying to help, in her own way?

"Thank you, Anastasia, for the kind offer," She replied earnestly. "I do not think I could accept. I... I'm not like you," She added almost wistfully, "I am not as independent, not as strong, not as curious. All I need is a home and a comfortable life, not travel and adventure. But even if I won't go with you, Asya, I truly do appreciate your concern. You are the best friend I've ever had."

Charlotte hugged her friend tightly. Asya, feeling prickly tears fighting their way to her eyes, decided to end the melodramatics, and switch to a more entertaining topic. After all, she knew more about being amused than about being affectionate.

"And now, my dear friend," She said merrily, stepping away from Charlotte, "Let us go see that old dragon. You know, it would be far easier for you, if you learned to adapt my attitude: try to see the amusement in the old Cat, rather than the offense."

"It's easy for you to say, Asya. The Lady was actually _civil _to you. She did not insult you, and it was clear that she held you in at least some sort of regard. I am sure she would not have issued that invitation to tea – if you were not a part of our party."

Asya laughed. "That is only because I am not afraid of her, Charlotte. And she's smart enough to see that there is no use intimidating the intrepid."

It was at that moment that Mr. Collins came rushing up the stairs and knocking unceremoniously on Charlotte's door.

"Miss Lucas, Miss Sapin! Are you in there? Come, come at once! Make haste, ladies! Can't you see that we are running late?" His voice was positively panicked. "We cannot be late to her Ladyship's tea! That would simply not do! Oh, what insult, what incivility, what preposterous conduct! Come out of that room, at once – NOW!"

His screeching had gotten so annoying, that the girls grumpily came out into the hall.

"Mr. Collins," Asya smiled insincerely. "We apologize for distressing you with our delay, but you must understand – we are in quite a fit here. After all, tea at such a magnificent place must surely require more than a day's worth of preparation. And for ladies, especially, it is dreadfully difficult – for what can we wear to such a place?"

Asya was barely containing her laughter by the end of her speech. But luckily, Mr. Collins discerned none of it, and took her mocking words for completely earnest.

"Indeed, Miss Sapin, that is a great consideration. I must praise you for your thoughtfulness. And to assuage your worries, my fair lady, pray do not make yourself uneasy about your apparel. Lady Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us, which becomes herself and her daughter. I would advise you merely to put on whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest; there is no occasion for anything more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you for being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank preserved."

"Very wisely spoken, Mr. Collins, very wisely indeed," Asya replied hurriedly, before immediately descending the stairs so as to hide the snigger that escaped her lips at the man's ridiculous speech.

Charlotte colored slightly at yet another display of Mr. Collins' lack of tact, and followed her friend. As she watch the skirt of Asya's beautiful dark green dress flow softly and effortlessly, she could not help but mentally remark on quite how preposterous her intended fiancé's words had been. Anastasia's attire was easily the finest Charlotte had ever beheld. The trunks full of silks and velvets, rubies and diamonds, that the elderly Vladimir Sapin had sent after his daughter were far nicer than what could normally be seen in their Herefordshire neighborhood.

As they were ascending the stairs to the grandiose front entrance of Rosings Park, Anastasia Sapin could barely contain her excitement. This – the amusement that could be found in Hunsford and Rosings – had always been her favorite part of _Pride and Prejudice_. Well, her favorite part apart from… apart from the handsome and romantic Mr. Darcy. But she would not let that thought go any further and ruin her jolly mood.

"You are late," where the first words that left the thin line of Lady Catherine's tightly pressed lips, once they were introduced and seated for tea.

"Your Ladyship," Mr. Collins hurried to apologize, "We offer our sincerest and most humble apologies for our delay. You see, the ladies –"

"You have a lovely home, Lady Catherine" Asya interrupted the simpering man unceremoniously, in a calm tone. "And this vase," she traced her finger lightly over the rim of a magnificent porcelain vase. "Pray tell me, could it be a replica of the one in the Winter Palace?"

Lady Catherine's face went through several different expressions. Fist was the narrowing of her eyes at the girl for such audacity to speak before she was addressed. Then was the offense taken at someone calling her vase a mere replica. And then – as the words "Winter Palace" sank in – incredulity at the implied meaning behind them. Could this little impertinent slip of a girl have truly frequented the Russian Court?

Inwardly rejoicing at the Lady's discomfort (and her stunned silence – which, Asya was sure, must have been very rare!), Asya continued:

"Indeed, the design looks very familiar. It is just like the one that Alexander I has had placed in the Armorial Hall. Only much smaller of course, by an order of perhaps… seven times?" She paused meaningfully. "I must command your taste, your Ladyship. I have always admired that particular vase during my visits to the Palace."

She then turned to sip her tea with complete nonchalance, as if she were entirely oblivious to the perplexed expressions on her companions' faces.

It seemed that everyone believed every word she had said – even Charlotte was regarding her with a new expression of awe. Asya felt light and happy, almost liberated by her deception. Just as that time in Netherfield, when she claimed to have been friends with Baudelaire – pretending to have frequented the palace of Alexander I somehow made her forced stay in this Regency Era a little more tolerable.

Once Lady Catherine managed to sufficiently recover from her shock, she gave Asya one last long look, as if trying to read something from the young girl's face, and then decided to turn the conversation back to herself:

"Anne is indisposed today, so she has been unable to join us. I thought it might be good for her to have some company; that was mainly why I invited you here," She stated matter-of-factly with a dismissive shrug of her shoulder. As if she did not care one bit for her guests. "Of course, once Richard comes tomorrow, there will no longer be any need for other entertainment. He has always been a good friend to my Anne, though of course nothing like my dear Fitzwilliam. My nephew, you know, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley," She remarked with an added air of importance, "is my daughter's fiancée. A strong, handsome, and _very _influential man."

She was looking straight at Asya as she pronounced the last sentence. It was clear that she was attempting to highlight her own connections, as a means to balance out Asya's nonchalant speech about Alexander I.

Asya wanted to laugh as she imagined what her ladyship's face would have looked like, had she seen that influential nephew of hers – on his knees, begging Asya to make love to him. But that brought back memories that pained her more than she wished to admit, so she swiftly chased such thoughts away.

"Really?" She asked casually, with a light smile on her lips. "I must say I found him rather disagreeable, and certainly nothing special."

Now _this_ was too much. Lady Catherine was seething inside. Was there _anything _she could trump this little nobody with? How could she be so distressingly beautiful and poised, have such impressive connections, and – to top it all off – have also invaded Lady Catherine's own sphere of influence?

"You know my nephew?" She questioned coldly.

"A little," Asya responded with an indifferent shrug of her perfectly shaped shoulders. "Frankly, I did not much care to know him better. As I said, I found the man entirely unpleasant."

"I will not have you speak of Fitzwilliam in such a manner," Lady Catherine answered slowly, attempting unsuccessfully to reign in her frustration. "He is the epitome of gentlemanly propriety. And I will have you know that he is _very _agreeable towards my Anne. If he is less sociable with those who are not worthy of his attentions, I cannot blame him."

"Oh?" Asya asked simply and nonchalantly, with one eyebrow quirked elegantly upwards. She did not pronounce a single word more, nor did she let her discontent explode as her hostess had done. The only feature in Miss Sapin's perfectly sculpted face that alerted Lady Catherine to her discontent was the controlled anger that shone through her slightly narrowed eyes.

Lady Catherine almost regretted her words. After all, she did not know much about this woman, but from what she did know – the girl appeared to be quite well-connected. Offending her in such a non-subtle manner had been ill-advised.

And Lady Catherine was angry with herself for losing her temper in such an unseemly manner, for being the weaker of the two. For that was exactly what she was – and it was written plainly in the slight smirk of Miss Sapin's lips. Without uttering a single word of insult, Miss Sapin had managed to win this implicit war of wills and wits. She had managed to maintain propriety even as her opponent had entirely lost it.

After several seconds of dead silence, Asya lifted her head in a regal yet perfectly effortless manner, and called over the nearest servant.

"Could you be so kind as to escort me out?" She asked brusquely. And without awaiting a reply, curtsied sequentially to her company:

"I bid you good day, Sir Lucas, Mr. Collins, Misses Lucas."

That was all. Not a single acknowledgement of the offending lady, not even a glance, before Anastasia Sapin determinedly exited Rosings Park.

And for the first time in many years, Lady Catherine felt something akin to fear.


	16. Of Forest Nymphs

Anastasia did not know whether to feel rejoiced or saddened as she swiftly left Rosings Park.

On the one hand, she could not help but inwardly gloat at the way she had expertly handled the Old Cat, as she now called the Lady. There had been some sort of an unspoken battle between the two women throughout the afternoon tea – as if to determine which one of them was more worthy of that magical title: _a lady_. Asya had won, even if just for a time. And it pleased her greatly: it made her feel as if she fit in at least somewhat into this strange, peculiar world. As if she could act, almost well, the part that she was forced to play.

But on the other hand, the consequences of her victory were quite severe. That she should never step foot into Rosings again was now quite certain. It was the only dignified thing to do, in her present role of an insulted noblewoman. And Asya was sure that she would feel the loss.

After all, what other amusements were there? She could not think of anything more entertaining than Lady Catherine's self-indulgent speeches, and Collins' simpering in his patroness's presence. Asya knew that she would miss these comical scenes when she would inevitably have to remain at home the next time that Collins and the rest of the household would take their tea at Rosings Park.

But the sun shone brightly; the air was crisp and fresh, yet soothingly warm. And Anastasia Sapin determined to rejoice in her momentary victory and forget the consequences.

After all, was it really such a grave woe to be devoid of Rosings, when it was so jolly to be outside?

She skipped and she turned, enjoying every moment of the walk back to the parsonage. The servants probably thought that her vehement decline of Her Ladyship's carriage had been meant as a further sign of Asya's discontent. But Asya had not even thought of that – she merely wished to enjoy these last wisps of colorful autumn.

Her deep green gown and golden hair fit beautifully among the vibrant yellows, reds, and oranges of the falling leaves. Her steps and jumps were light and playful.

And so it was no wonder that her small, lovely figure left the approaching horseman transfixed.

Richard wondered for a moment whether this delightful creature – half-walking, half-skipping, half-dancing – was merely a figment of his imagination. Coming closer, he determined to the contrary, and marveled at his good fortune of coming across this girl on his ride to Rosings Park.

He came up to her, and quickly dismounted from the horse.

"Good afternoon, fair lady," He pronounced with a low bow, and a wide smile on his face.

The lady in question did not reply; she only observed him curiously with one eyebrow lifted in half-question, and one corner of her perfect lips raised in half-smile.

'_She is even prettier from up close_,' Richard remarked with delight. _'Those rosy cheeks, that pretty nose, those sparkling eyes. Magnificent.'_

"May I request the pleasure of an introduction, enchantress?" He addressed her again, when she did not speak.

"You may request whatever you please, sir. Whether your request will be granted is a different matter." Her voice was stern, but Richard could see the smile fighting its way to her lips.

'_Cheeky, as well,' _He thought appreciatively, already entranced.

"Touché," He drawled. "You have defeated me. And I have nothing left but to beg you most humbly to tell me the name of my conqueror."

"I would rather have you guess," She remarked noncommittally, and resumed her walk to the parsonage. She was pleased to see that the handsome, pleasant, and playful man, who had come to her seemingly out of nowhere, decided to walk with her.

Richard laughed. "Guess? Why, I would certainly guess that you are a forest nymph, come to enchant unsuspecting, susceptible men."

"Is that so? Then you should better take your leave, sir. You should not wish to be thus entranced."

"Alas! Yet I fear it is too late already – the damage has been done." He sighed dramatically, and hung his head in mock resignation.

Her brilliant laughter was the ample reward for his theatrics.

"Where are you walking, milady?"

"A _lady_? Oh no! What an atrocious title. I would much rather remain a nymph."

"And why such radical preferences?"

"A nymph is careless and free, where a lady is bound. You see, were I a lady, propriety would demand that I curtsy to you, and take you seriously, and honor your request for an introduction. Yet fortunately, as a nymph, I suffer none of those obligations. I may tease as I please, and refuse to take anyone seriously."

"You are too clever by half, madam. Is sparkling, unrestrained wit also a quality of mythical nymphs?"

Asya shook her head in the negative. "No, sir, merely a figment of your imagination. For neither do I sport enough precious stones to be deemed truly sparkling, nor am I so slight as to be called a whit. What is more, I assure you that I truly exist. So mythical is hardly appropriate."

Richard smiled at her play on his words.

"Very well, then – my beautiful nymph. Where may your prey escort you?"

"Escort me? Nowhere! I fear you are treading dangerous grounds here, sir. Nymphs do not like being encroached upon. So you better take your leave at once, while you can, and allow me to continue my forest adventures in solitude."

He looked at her seriously: "Do you truly mean that?"

She merely laughed. "Did you mean half the things you have said in the past five minutes?"

Richard smiled, relieved. "In that case, I surrender. You have defeated me with your beauty and wit alike, and I shall escort you wherever you go." He paused for a second, remembering. "Only let me inform my cousin. I wouldn't wish to worry him."

"Your cousin?" Asya asked, with a frown. Something about that made her suddenly uneasy; she knew not why.

"Ah yes, my dear old cousin. We have come here together, to visit Rosings Park. Are you familiar with its inhabitants?"

"Somewhat…" Asya paused, thinking. "Pray tell me, sir, are you related to Lady Catherine?"

Richard smiled. "Unfortunately, yes: I am guilty of that crime."

This was becoming increasingly unpleasant, and Asya dreaded the answer to her next question:

"What is your name, sir?"

Richard laughed.

"Oh, no, my beautiful minx! That is hardly fair. If you refuse to introduce yourself, I shall do the same."

Asya laughed with him. Then cheekily pointed out: "I did, however, give you a chance to guess, which you chose to waste. Do I not deserve an analogous right?"

"Well then: you may guess, milady."

"C-Colonel Richard F-Fitzwilliam?" She asked, with a slight tremble. Asya prayed inwardly for a negative answer.

Richard regarded her quizzically. "Indeed, you are correct. How did you know?"

Dread washed over Asya. _'Does it mean that his cousin is…?' _It took all her strength to pull herself back together and answer Richard's question with a smile:

"Your aunt has said something about your upcoming visit, I believe. But I thought you were coming alone; and yet you mention a cousin…"

Richard sniggered. "Ah yes, my melancholic cousin. I had indeed intended on journeying on my own. But seeing that my poor chap of a cousin has been behaving even more gloomily over the past few weeks than is typically his wont, I dragged him with me."

"Which cousin do you speak of?" Asya asked, even though she knew the answer already, and was now resigned to the cruel joke that Fate was playing on her.

"Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley. Do you know him?"

Asya did not have a chance to respond, before a horseman approached them, and Richard waved enthusiastically at the newcomer.

"Darcy, old chap! There you are – I thought I had lost you!" He chuckled before adding: "Or perhaps it was I who was lost – for this appears to be an enchanted forest! I have fallen prey, I'm afraid, to a most charming nymph."

Asya hardly heard the latter part of Richard's blabbering. Her undivided attention was fixed on the man before her.

There, on a beautiful stallion as fit and powerful as its glorious rider, sat Asya's personal nightmare.

There were slight bags under his eyes, which she could not recall having seen there before. His face seemed a little thinner. His lips were a bit duller and almost orange, having lost some of their fullness and color. His hair was disheveled and uneven, especially on the right side – where it seemed as if some of it was oddly missing.

But it was him nonetheless. Asya closed her eyes tightly, willing the apparition to vanish. But it did not. When she looked up once again, he was still there, watching her with an unreadable expression.

'_Fitzwilliam Darcy.'_


	17. Of Musings and Misery

It took Fitzwilliam Darcy, who normally prided himself on his astute intellectual capacities, two whole weeks to fully overcome his hurt and anger at Miss Sapin. And to acknowledge without reserve that the fault of that fateful day had been entirely, undeniably, painfully his.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours.

Darcy had allowed himself to hope that hours, days, weeks of not seeing his Asya might somehow temper the urgent desperation with which he desired her.

'_No such luck.'_

His dreams and desires were as vibrant as ever. And he hated it so.

He had never been so naïve as to think that withdrawing himself from her presence would make him forget her. But to think of her so constantly every moment of every day, to retain such powerful images of her so long after their separation? It was too much. Especially now, when he knew with such certainly that he was _the last man in the world she could ever be prevailed upon to bed_.

How those words hurt him! How much they had hurt him then – how much more they were hurting him now!

Now, when he realized with shame and self-hate that they were utterly, entirely, completely deserved. Now, when the very thought of her pained him with its taunting reminder of his incivility, of his injustice, of his hypocrisy – and of his love.

'_Every moment of every day.'_

Did he truly deserve such torture?

And he knew quite for certain. _'Yes, I do_.'

He deserved every slowly agonizing moment of it for his despicable behavior towards the woman whom he not only desired, but also _respected_.

Somehow, in the heat of his passion during that shameful proposition, he had managed to forget that.

'_I respected her. I admired her.'_

Had he not admired the manner in which Miss Sapin had spared Mr. Bingley with such grace, such selflessness?

Had he not been incensed at his friend for repaying Miss Sapin's kindness with cruelty, for divulging her secret?

And then… and then had he not himself behaved a thousand times worse than his friend?

'_Hypocrite!'_

Bingley hurt her with his scorn following her revelation, and Darcy had scolded his friend for such superficiality. Yet he, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, the man who prided himself on his integrity and his principles, was the one who then went ahead and insulted her a thousand times more than his friend ever could.

And he did it with such purposefully hurtful words.

"_The position of my mistress is the most you could ever aspire to."_

How those words haunted him!

How could he even _think _them, let alone utter them aloud?

But he had been so hurt by her refusal, so angry, so desperate… that he forgot for a moment about _her _feelings, _her _humanity, _her _dignity.

He had been so consumed with his desire for her body, that he forgot his respect for her person.

And it cost him everything. Never again would he see her sparkling eyes. And if he did – they would be filled with hatred. It would be torture to continue to have feelings for her. Yet forgetting her was not an option.

'_Feelings for her? Is that what I called it?' _ He now accepted it with certainty for what it was: Love.

He, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, was completely and irrevocably in love with Miss Anastasia Sapin of St. Petersburg.

And she hated him in return. Thus dooming him to a lifetime of misery. But could he really blame her? Of course he could not. He had behaved abominably, unpardonably; and she had every right to despise him.

In a feeble attempt to vent out his incurable frustration, Darcy tugged with force at his hair, drawing out a small fistful. He winced in pain, and repeated the gesture. As if attempting to punish himself for his brutal behavior. As if he was not already punished enough by the constant memory of soft golden curls that he would never touch.

A firm knock on his study's door brought Darcy out of his melancholic thoughts. He tried at first to ignore the intruder, but the knock persisted.

"I asked to be left alone!" He grumbled loudly, and sank deeper into his chair.

When the persistent knocker did not cease, Darcy grumpily stood and approached the door.

"What in the devil's name is the matter?" He half-shouted, annoyed, as he opened the door.

There, before his eyes, stood his smiling cousin. Richard Fitzwilliam's broad grin and one challengingly raised eyebrow contrasted markedly with the dark circles under Fitzwilliam Darcy's glaring eyes.

"Oh my, dear cousin! I thought I would find you rotten, but never truly expected it to be quite this bad!" Richard exclaimed playfully, and, without invitation, swayed nonchalantly into Darcy's study.

He reached the desk, threw a casual glance at the near-empty bottle of brandy and the well-used glass by its side. Then walked to the immaculate cabinet and helped himself to some cleaner glassware. The remnants on the bottom of the bottle then entered his perched lips.

"Not bad," He commented noncommittally. "I can almost understand why you've been consuming nothing else for the past few days. Almost."

"What are you doing here?" Darcy grit out through his teeth.

"Coming to your rescue," Richard answered plainly. "What did you think?"

"I would really appreciate it if you could leave me _alone_," Darcy pronounced slowly, enunciating each cold word.

"No, no, dearest cousin. I am a Colonel in the Royal military; so I do not desert. And hence it is quite out of the question for me to leave my own relation when he is most in need of assistance."

"I do not require your assistance."

Darcy turned angrily towards the window. Richard let out a loud laugh.

"Do you not? You have been rotting away in your house for almost three weeks. You barely eat anything,; you never venture outside; you hardly even step out of your study. Your housekeeper is at her wits' end with worry, Darcy!"

"I am fine."

"You most certainly are _not_."

Darcy turned abruptly back to face his cousin. "And what would you have me do, Richard?"

"Go out!"

"Where?" There was not a small tint of irritation in his voice.

Richard merely laughed again. "We are in London, cousin! Surely you know that there are plenty of places you could be that are just a tad more jolly than your stuffy library!"

When Darcy did not respond, Richard continued with a playful twinkle in his cheerful eyes:

"Come, Darcy! Let me show you a good time. There are several places with _very _nice girls who could easily take your mind off whatever – or should I say _who_ever? – is the cause of your worries!"

Darcy's heart sped and his ears drummed with fury, as he clenched his fists tightly in an attempt to contain his anger. He did not even notice the tiny droplets of blood that escaped his palms as his fingers dug forcefully into the skin.

Of course, it was not the first time that Richard had attempted to entice Darcy to accompany him on such expeditions to less than proper establishments. Usually Darcy, albeit offended, would simply brush off the propositions. He would go along with Richard's banter, but would invariably make up some excuse or another at the last moment, so as not to attend. He had never felt comfortable with the idea of engaging in such intimate activities with a woman who was not his wife – much less a girl from a filthy brothel. It did not correspond to his ideas of gentlemanly behavior, and violated his personal principles of nobility and honor. Yet he had never attempted to argue with his cousin directly on this point.

Never had Richard's blatant offer incensed him as much as it did now.

Now, when that blasted cousin of his had the audacity to propose a _brothel _as a way to take his mind off of _Asya_!

'_Ridiculous! Preposterous! How dare he?_'

Darcy took a calming breath. It did nothing to help sooth his anger.

'_How dare he attempt to tempt me to engage in such sordid encounters? How dare he presume that it could ever come even close to a replacement for _her_? How dare he even mention such horrid, such filthy, such despicable things when my thoughts are engaged by _her_?'_

At last he calmed enough to speak:

"If you intend on continued to speak in such rowdy manner and make such base propositions, sir, then I demand that you leave this house at once."

Richard was a bit shocked by the cold, angry manner in which his cousin addressed him.

"What is the matter, Darcy? I did not say anything quite so preposterous –"

"Did you not just invite me to accompany you to a brothel, _cousin_?" Darcy replied sardonically.

"Why, yes – I thought it would be good for you. To dispel your melancholy a bit, you know…. Well, you _know_."

"No, Richard, I _don't _know."

Richard blinked a few times, confused. Until comprehension slowly dawned on him.

"Darcy, you…. No, surely… you do not mean to tell me… you are not an innocent, cousin?"

The silence that followed was correctly taken by the savvy Mr. Fitzwilliam as a 'yes'.

"Darcy! How can that be? You are eight-and-twenty, my man! No, surely, that absolutely cannot do. Now you _must _come with me!"

"Must I? Really? You think I absolutely _must _come and waste my first time on a senseless girl in a dirty brothel? _Are you out of your mind_, _Richard_?"

Seeing the fury flashing from Darcy's eyes, Richard backed away slightly, holding his hands out in front of him in surrender.

"Alright, alright. I get it. I'm just a bit surprised, that is all. You know, _everyone _does it. Of course, I understand perfectly that you are not like 'everyone'. You've always been a stickler for propriety and morals; I just never knew that it was to _this _extent."

Several minutes of heavy silence followed.

"I'm sorry, Darcy. Really, I am." There was genuine sincerely in his voice, which almost evoked a smile from Darcy.

"It's alright, Richard. I should not have exploded at you in such a manner."

Another short pause.

"You know, I still think you should get out."

Having gotten over his sudden anger, Darcy felt somewhat spent. But at least his irritation seemed to have dispersed after he had gotten his emotions out. He was calmer now.

He let out a heavy sigh. "You are probably right."

Richard smiled. "Since you're not interested in the delights that the less proper parts of London have to offer, why don't we do something a bit more suitable? What about a trip to Kent? I promised to visit there anyway…"

"You don't mean Rosings –"

"Why not?"

"Richard, if you think that _Aunt Catherine _is the right way to lift my spritis, then I'm afraid that you are sorely mistaken."

"Well, yes, I grant you that our aunt is not the most agreeable person. But _I _will be there; and Anne is not so bad. The country air would be good for your health. And besides, I have heard that her parson, Mr. Collins, is quite an amusing character. It could be diverting, Darcy – frankly, I think that _anything _that would get your mind off your present melancholy would be good."

Darcy considered Richard's offer for a while. Although he certainly did not feel like leaving his townhouse, much less seeing his aunt – he did see some sense in Richard's arguments. It would be good to get away. It had become clear by now that all he could do in that dark study was wallow in self-pity and suffer from self-loathing. Thoughts of Miss Sapin would not leave him even for a moment. Why not journey to Kent, where he would be among people – even if some of them unpleasant – and where he could take his mind off of _her_? For surely, he would run no risk of running into anyone of her acquaintance _there_.

"Alright," he grumbled at last. "You have convinced me."

Richard clapped him soundly on the back. "Excellent, Darcy! I am so glad you can join me! Truly, your company will be much appreciated in _that _part of the country. Sour as you are, you're still better than Aunty Cat."

Somehow, Richard's words did not make Darcy any more enthusiastic about the trip.


	18. The Taciturn Cousin

And now she was before him.

It was the last thing he had expected to see when Richard challenged him to a race and, lost in his own thoughts, Darcy inadvertently lagged behind. The crisp sensations of the humid air, the soft smell of autumn leaves assaulted his overtaxed mind with unwanted memories – the leaves made him think of how pretty _she _looked on her morning walks; the roots made his remember with painful pleasure how he had carried _her_ to Netherfield after she hurt her foot.

Once he regained his senses, Darcy raced after his cousin – but he stopped dead in his tracks when he caught up with Richard.

'_No, this cannot be_.'

He drew a deep breath, and blinked a few times as he approached, as yet unseen.

'_But it is.'_

Still unable to believe his eyes, still raging against Fate for this cruel joke, he saw the two figures turn towards him. He vaguely noticed Richard speaking to him, but he could not make out the words. All his senses had disappeared, except sight. With all his being, he took her in – the ethereal vision before him.

'_Even more beautiful than before – how is that possible?'_

So lost was he in observing her, in drinking her in, that he had forgotten to greet her. Cringing inwardly at his incivility, Darcy hastened to correct his mistake with a quick tipping of his head, and immediately dismounted from his horse.

Richard laughed at the sight that his cousin presented – so lost, so disoriented. He must still be mulling over whatever or whoever it was that had reduced him to his melancholy – so much so, that he was failing to notice the delightful beauty before him. _'All the better for me,' _Richard thought with a smirk.

"Milady," Richard turned playfully to the girl next to him. "Allow me to present my honorable, generous, intelligent, and altogether far too _good _– but painfully awkward at times – cousin. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley." He then addressed his relation: "Darcy, it is my great pleasure to introduce to you the enchanting Miss Forest Nymph."

"Miss Forest Nymph?" Darcy repeated dumbly, confused.

"Indeed, that is the only name I have gotten out of this mysterious beauty. She refuses to oblige me with any further introduction."

Asya laughed. "Come, Colonel, you must not expose me so in front of others!" She then narrowed her eyes playfully: "Or are you no longer afraid of me and my mythical powers?"

Richard laughed with her. "You are too right, madam. I am so completely under your power that I would do well to behave." He was half-tempted to give her a flirtatious wink, but thought better of it – lest he offend the enchanting maiden.

"It is a pleasure, Miss Nymph," Darcy cut it curtly, displeased by the scene of coquettish familiarity between his cousin and Miss Sapin.

"Likewise, I'm sure," Asya dropped a small curtsey, her tone echoing the coldness of Darcy's, though for an entirely different reason.

"Darcy, I am very glad you found us – for I wanted to let you know that I shall accompany this delightful lady to her abode. I will see you at our Aunt's in a bit – please give her my apologies for the delay." With this, he gallantly offered Asya his arm, which she took readily.

They were just about to turn and continue on their walk, when Darcy interjected, his voice terse and constricted from unreadable emotion:

"Of course, Richard, I understand. It would not do to leave such a lovely lady unaccompanied." He bowed solemnly. "Allow me to join you."

Asya stopped cold.

"No, Mr. Darcy, I would not wish to impose –"

"It is no imposition, I assure you, madam. For surely, you must know that your company is always a pleasure."

The purposeful look, imbued with pain, resentment, longing, desire – so dark, so passionate – sent a slight shiver down Asya's spine. Her voice was trembling when she replied, yet her words remained firm:

"Truly, sir, _there is no need. _Please proceed on your way to your aunt's, and deliver Mr. Fitzwilliam's apologies."

She then turned away, and Darcy's heart sank.

'_She has dismissed me.'_

It would be improper to argue further, so without a single word of goodbye or even another glance, he saddled his horse and rode off in a fury. His temples buzzing with anger, and his heart constricting with ache – as his entire being was overtaken by jealousy inspired by the vision of _his_ Asya on Richard's arm, her smiles directed at his flippant, roguish, undeserving cousin.

That undeserving cousin, meantime, asked with unveiled amusement:

"I take it that you did not take a liking to my cousin, madam?"

"I – " Asya stammered, unsure of how to reply. Steadying her voice, she pronounced noncommittally: "I suppose he must be rather gloomy – oppressive, almost."

"Indeed, he did not appear at his best, I'm afraid. The poor chap hardly remembered to greet you."

Asya shrugged.

"But really, he is not so bad, I assure you." Richard could help but come to his cousin's defense, who was, after all, one of his dearest friends. "He has just been a little out of sorts lately – I am not entirely sure why. From all the symptoms, I would guess that it is because of a woman… but I know that that cannot be!"

"Why can't it?" His companion asked quietly, almost thoughtfully.

Richard laughed. "Darcy – in love? Preposterous! And in unrequited love – even more so!"

"Why so?"

"Well, to be sure – I cannot imagine a single young lady in all of England who would not accept him, were he to make her an offer. He is young, handsome, well-connected, with a magnificent estate. Probably one of the top ten most eligible men in the country, at least."

"And that must make him simply irresistible," Asya mumbled bitterly.

"Of course! Why would anyone not want that?"

"Does your cousin not have any faults – maybe pride, vanity, arrogance? Superficiality or egotism? Or perhaps hypocrisy?"

Richard erupted in a wave of laughter. "Who – Darcy? Lord, no! He is all that is good – _too _good, I would say."

Asya shrugged. She decided not to press further on the subject, and instead pointed out:

"Regardless, love is not the only thing that can tie a man to a woman. I could not imagine your cousin in love either, though I hardly know him. But perhaps in lust?"

As she pronounced those words, she felt a sting of pain, and hated herself for it. _'Why should I care that he was never in love with me? Why should I be so stupidly affected by the fact that this man – just one random, unwanted, unneeded, undeserving man – desired me for nothing more than my body? Why should it bother me so terribly much that he treated me as a common whore?'_

She despised Darcy for having hurt her so much – but she hated herself almost to the same extent for _letting _him hurt her. For letting herself be so easily affected by a single man.

Meanwhile, Richard was once again unable to contain his merriment. "Indeed, you must not know him at all if you can say such a thing! He is the very opposite of lustful – any physical desire is either entirely foreign to him, or under the very best of regulation."

Asya was almost tempted to let Mr. Fitzwilliam know just how wrong he was about this _honorable_ cousin of his. The way Richard spoke of Mr. Darcy as almost a saint infuriated her. _'If only he knew of the base proposition this 'good' cousin of his has made to me!' _she thought bitterly. But she knew better than to bring this up.

Meanwhile, Richard concluded pleasantly:

"No, no, that cannot be! The source of Darcy's grouchiness must be something else altogether." He paused to catch his breath from laughing, then said merrily: "But let us not dwell on this any longer. There are far more pleasant topics of conversation than my gloomy cousin."

Asya could not agree more.

A mere few hundred feet away, in Rosings Park, Lady Catherine was surprised – though by no means disappointed – to see, in place of Richard Fitzwilliam, her other nephew.

"Darcy?"

"Good afternoon, Aunt," His voice was flat and tired.

"I had not expected you – what a pleasant surprise! Anne is resting at the moment, but I am sure she will be _delighted _to see you! She should come down for supper. Why don't you unpack and freshen up before then? You must be tired from your journey."

"Indeed, I am. Thank you, madam." He bowed curtly and was about to leave the room. Then remembered something: "Richard asked me to convey his apologies for the delay. He is merely accompanying a lady home, and will arrive here shortly."

Without waiting to hear anything more than his aunt's indignant huff at his cousin's lateness, Darcy retired upstairs.

He lay, still fully dressed, on the bed, and exhaled deeply. Chasing all thoughts of Richard and Asya out of his mind, he urged himself to relax while two servants were preparing his bath.

In an attempt to distract himself, Darcy listened in to their idle chatter.

"_D'you 'ear about the confrontation this morning?"_

"_'Tween her Ladyship and that refined Russian miss? Fo'sure! I wagger it'd cause quite the scandal..."_

"_By Jove! I 'ave never seen Lady Catherine so angry. Never woulda thought the Lady could be'ave so out of order."_

"_Oh yes! I 'ear she was real rude to the other lass."_

"_Did you see the Russian leaving? She plain refuse the carriage. Just walked straight outta 'ere. Musta been very angry indeed. I fear what her wrath can bring."_

"_She very powerful then?"_

"_She knows the Emperor, that one."_

Darcy's pulse quickened as he divined the subject of the servants' gossip. _'This Russian lady – was it...? Could it be...?' _It had to be – there was no other Russians in the neighborhood, as far as he knew – and he did see Asya walking near Rosings Park less than an hour before.

But then – what had his aunt done? Form the servants' chatter, it sounded like Lady Catherine had surpassed even her usual insensitive self in her rudeness. Darcy's mind clouded with anger as he imagined his aunt insulting Miss Sapin.

Unable to lay still for another moment, he hurried downstairs.

"Aunt?" His commanding voice loomed loud as he called out for her.

"Yes, Darcy?" Lady Catherine did not know what to make of her nephew returning so soon, and in such an obviously unsettled state. "What is it?"

"Did you have any guests today?" Darcy probed.

"Oh yes – my parson, Mr. Collins, has come here to introduce his bride and her family. Why do you ask?"

_'His bride? But no – that couldn't possible be – '_

His heart stilled with dread, Darcy queried:

"Ah, yes, I have encountered Mr. Collins briefly in Hertfortshire. Pray tell me – whom is he to marry?"

Her Ladyship shrugged almost disdainfully. "One Charlotte Lucas. Nothing special – a plain little country miss. But mild mannered, quiet, and almost pleasant. From a decent family. I do believe she would do well for Collins."

Darcy let out, in relief, the breath he did not know he had been holding.

"And she came with her family?"

"Yes, yes, with her father and her sister," Lady Catherine answered impatiently.

"Did anyone else join them?" Darcy pressed on.

"A friend of hers, I believe. Truly, Darcy, they are all of no import! I do not understand why you are so curious about this Miss Lucas."

"It is not Miss Lucas that I am curious about, madam," Darcy responded in a measured tone, "But a certain rumor I have chanced to overhear. The friend who came with Miss Lucas – was it Miss Sapin, by any chance?"

Lady Catherine paled as she remembered the impertinent Russian and was overcome with a sense of foreboding. She nodded slightly.

"And did you happen to say anything particularly rude to this young lady, Aunt?" Darcy stepped close to her Ladyship, and was now looming over her, his dark eyes shining dangerously.

"I –" Lady Catherine stammered. "I did nothing of the sort!" She then declared indignantly.

"Really? Then why was it that the young lady had left your house alone, and on foot?"

"I am not accountable for _her _preposterous actions, nephew!"

"Were you not the reason for her hasty departure, madam? What exactly did you say to her, Aunt?"

The commanding urgency of his presence forced his aunt to give in.

"Nothing of any import, nephew! If you wish to know: she said some unflattering things about _you_, and I merely thought to defend you."

"Defend me – how?"

"By pointing out that if she perceived you to be less than perfectly amiable, it is due to her own low station," Her Ladyship huffed.

Darcy did not know whether to laugh or cry. He was utterly mortified by the fact that Miss Sapin had to be subjected to this and on account of _him _no less (what must she think of him now!). But at the same time the situation was so absolutely ludicrous that it was almost amusing.

At last he settled for feeling angry.

"Miss Sapin is an acquaintance of mine," he pronounced slowly, "and I do not take kindly to hearing of her being insulted. If her opinion of me is less than ideal, than I am perfectly sure that it is entirely _my _fault. For I have known this lady to be nothing but generous and kind to those around her," He let out a wistful smile at his memory of her friendly interactions with Charlotte Lucas and Jane Bennet – as well as the way she had graciously spared his own friend, Charles Bingley. "If you have slighted her – which I am sure you did – then I demand that an apology be issued immediately."

"An apology? Are you out of your senses, Darcy?"

"I am not."

Lady Catherine huffed loudly, and then turned away. Before heading out of the room, she declared firmly:

"I will not admit that trollop in my house again. And that is final."

"In that case, madam, _my _presence shall not be seen in your house either. I will ask my valet to pack my things immediately."

Darcy's aunt turned back at once at such a threat from her nephew:

"You don't mean that... surely..."

"I do."

The finality of his voice brought back the wave of fear she had faintly felt when Miss Sapin regally left Rosings Park. _'Who is this girl that even Darcy is so intent on not causing her any offense?' _Lady Catherine could not help but feel with an increased urgency that the mysterious Russian was someone _very _powerful.

"Very well," She conceded shakily. "I will write her a note."

"Thank you, madam," Darcy bowed curtly and headed back to his room.

He did descend to supper that afternoon, after a long bath that failed to fully sooth him. He was, however, even more taciturn than was his wont. His conversation with Anne was perfunctory at best, and he ignored his aunt altogether. The majority of the evening he spent staring blankly at Richard, memories from that afternoon flooding his mind.

The healthy rosy tint on Richard's cheeks, brought on by his walk with Miss Sapin, the jolly glint of his eyes – it all annoyed Darcy to no end.

When the gentlemen withdrew to the late Sir de Bourgh's study after supper, the cheerful, almost bouncy way in which Richard seated himself on the edge of the large oak desk, brought a new wave of bile to Darcy's throat. He wanted to say something scathing, hurtful, cutting to his overly jolly cousin. But he could not think of anything that would do justice to the extent of his present jealous hatred, so he remained silent.

It fell to Richard to speak first:

"Who would have thought that this time my stay at Rosings might actually be… enjoyable."

Darcy bit back the growl that threatened to escape from his throat. Instead, he merely remarked coldly:

"I thought you had enjoyed yourself well enough on your previous visits as well. Or have you forgotten the maid last Easter, or the butler's daughter two summers ago?"

"Ah, but they were mere trifles, cousin! Nothing to the enchanting Miss Sapin."

Richard did not notice the cold, almost murderous glare that his cousin was sending him. For otherwise, perhaps he would have restrained himself before his next words:

"She is quite lovely indeed. And she is also a lady. Who knows – she might even be wealthy enough, where a marriage would not be unreasonable. Just think about it, cousin. Sex and money together: double the pleasure." And he laughed heartily.

"I do not appreciate your crude jokes, Richard," Darcy whispered dangerously, "when they are at the expense of a lady."

"And who said I was joking, Darcy? No, indeed, I am perfectly serious."

With that, Richard gave him a wink, and retired for the night.


	19. Attempts at Civility

Darcy did not sleep well that night. Nor any of the nights that followed.

His dreams were continually consumed by desire, which only intensified with Miss Sapin's tantalizing proximity. His mind was driven to distraction with worry.

Slow, nagging worry at Miss Sapin's persistently cold treatment of him. He knew it was deserved – oh so very deserved – for the despicable way in which he had treated her. But could she not see that he was sincerely sorry? Did she not notice the proper, respectful, stately ways in which he now expressed his admiration? Could she not perceive that his opinions were now entirely favorable, and his intentions – honorable?

And acute, blindly jealous worry at Miss Sapin's flirtatious interactions with his roguish cousin. After that conversation with Richard in late Sir de Bourgh's study, Darcy could not get his cousin's troubling words out of his mind. Whether they were spoken in jest or earnest mattered little. It was painfully obvious that Richard was attracted to Miss Sapin. If it was nothing more than lust, then Richard would treat her no better than the butler's daughter. Darcy's blood boiled with rage as he envisaged his wayward cousin having his way with Miss Sapin, ravaging her body as if she were a common whore!

And yet – if Richard was serious about what he said that night in the study – if he truly intended to make Miss Sapin the mistress of not just his bed – then it was hardly any better. _'Richard does not deserve her!' _Darcy thought bitterly. _'He doesn't even love her… can't she see? Why won't she see – that _I _am the one so ardently in love with her?'_

'_Perhaps it is because you have already broken her heart and squashed her dignity once, fool_,' He answered himself bitterly. _'Even if Miss Sapin harbored any affection for me, she would not be so stupid as to let her guard down with a man who had once said she could never be more than his mistress!'_

Fitzwilliam Darcy clenched his fists in frustration at his own stupidity.

No, he would have to work much harder to show her that he truly _did _respect and admire her, and desired her for more than just her sumptuous body.

And that was precisely what he was attempting to do when he rushed over to her intended chair one evening at a dinner party at Rosings Park. He pulled the chair out for her with a slight bow of his head, before Richard had a chance to do so.

Asya regarded him quizzically. _'What is this man about now?'_ She wondered. For the past several days, it seemed almost as if Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy went out of his way to be civil to her.

She let go of Colonel Fitzwilliam's arm, and thanked him for accompanying her to her place at the dinner table. She then lowered herself onto the chair that Darcy was still holding. As he pushed the chair gently back into place, she reclined her head back, and lightly brushed the top of her head against his lower chest.

She felt him stiffen immediately, and smiled softly to herself. Apparently, she still had an effect on this man. Whatever he was playing at, she had this one advantage: he was attracted to her.

She turned back with the most charming and innocent smile she could muster.

"Thank you, Mr. Darcy." And lowered her head almost demurely.

Her efforts paid off, as she saw Darcy swallow obviously, and stammer out a mumbled "You're welcome, madam," before retreating hastily to take his own seat.

Darcy was distracted for the entirety of the dinner. His short encounter with Miss Sapin replayed in his mind over and over again. How could this _woman _affect him so? She drove him purely insane, with nothing more than a soft touch of her luscious curls and a sweet smile! If only… if only she were his, he could get some relief. He would press her against the wall in a secluded part of the house, and press his lips demandingly against hers. He would scoop her up in his arms, and carry her up to his bedchamber, where he would –

Darcy blushed furiously at such improper products of his own imagination. He could not – he _should _not – think that way about her.

The fact that he was sat at his Aunt's dinner table, his dessert plate practically untouched, his mouth not yet opened to participate in the surrounding conversation, his groin pulsating with desire… Was that not painfully, shamefully humiliating?

And yet – so deliciously sweet.

Ironically, it was his Asya's sparkling laughter that brought him back to reality.

"You did _not_!" Asya exclaimed, playfully. Darcy saw his cousin, laughing just as hard, nod his head. "But that was so cruel, Colonel! What a terribly wicked child you must have been! And I suppose you must have been punished severely for all your misdeeds?"

Laughing, Richard replied: "Ah yes, I was perennially grounded as a child. My parents hardly knew what to do with me. Nothing seemed to work – I did not pay heed to any of their warnings, or whippings, or pleadings."

And then, as she lowered her voice, all hint of hilarity left it, and Asya whispered only for the Colonel to hear: "You must be a _very _naughty boy, Colonel Fitzwilliam. And perhaps you might require more severe punishments than those that your parents were ready to bestow."

No one overheard those words, but Darcy, who was seated across from Richard. He was so in tune with her entire being, so consumed by her, that he would not miss a single word spoken by her pretty lips, even if it was a word whispered privately to another man. He did not know enough about the ways of the world to understand fully what she was saying, but he got the gist of her meaning.

From the way the Colonel stopped laughing abruptly and instead pierced her with an intense gaze so akin to Darcy's own; a gaze of pure desire –

From the way the words had sounded so languid, so sultry from Miss Sapin's tantalizingly parted lips –

From the way his own heart skipped a beat from simultaneous lust at her sensual speech and rage of jealousy towards his cousin –

From all those things, Darcy could easily surmise that his cousin and Miss Sapin were no longer discussing Richard's childhood misadventures.

Unable to take any more of this torturous mockery, Fitzwilliam Darcy stood abruptly, and pronounced:

"I believe it is high time for some entertainment. Wouldn't you agree, Aunt?"

"Ah… yes, of course," Lady Catherine stammered out, too confused by her nephew's antics, and still mentally focused on her prior discussion of all the things Mr. Collins was doing wrong with respect to the management of his parsonage.

"But Darcy," Richard intercepted, as baffled as his aunt, but less obliging. "We have only just begun dessert. There's plenty of time yet – why not engage in some lively conversation?"

"I am in no mood for _conversation_, cousin," Darcy replied, giving Richard a scathing look, as if intimating that there was one conversation in particular that bothered him. "I would much rather hear some poetry." He then turned to Asya: "Miss Sapin, will you oblige us?"

The party was by that time heading into the parlor, and by some unearthly stroke of luck, Richard had just been called away to attend to a visitor from his regiment.

Thus, Darcy had managed somehow to commandeer Miss Sapin's arm.

"I am not in the mood, Mr. Darcy, pray excuse me," She answered hesitantly.

"Nonsense!" Darcy knew that he was being overly forceful, and that he was breaking his own vow to be as civil as he could with her. But he could not help it – he had to get the image of that sexually-charged conversation at the dinner table out of his head. "Few things have ever given me as much pleasure as hearing you recite, Miss Sapin," he added meaningfully, in a lowered voice. "Please, will you not humour me?"

"Yes, Miss Sapin, pray delight us," Chimed in his aunt, who was watching them with undisguised, and clearly displeased, interest.

"Very well," She conceded, sending Darcy a cold glare. She truly could not understand what was wrong with the man. But arguing was futile, lest she risk appearing uncivil to Lady Catherine. After the Lady, to Asya's greatest surprise, had issued her a written apology several days ago, the two women were attempting to maintain at least outward courtesy towards each other.

As Asya took her stance, reclining softly against he fireplace, she took a few deep breaths, willing her mind to relax. Bidding some poem to come off its own accord.

And it did. The words came, unbidden, and flowed quietly from her tongue.

_Souvent, pour s'amuser, les hommes d'équipage  
Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers,  
Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage,  
Le navire glissant sur les gouffres amers._

There was wistfulness in her words, and a hint at something vast and infinite as she spoke the last line – as if she yearned to follow those ships, as if she wanted to see that bitter abyss.

_À peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches,  
Que ces rois de l'azur, maladroits et honteux,  
Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches  
Comme des avirons traîner à côté d'eux._

Why was it that every time Fitzwilliam heard her recite a poem, it caused him so much pain? Why did he willingly submit to this bittersweet torture again – why did he ask her to recite a poem when he knew full well that it would make him want nothing more than to engulf her in his arms and take away all of her pain?

_Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule!  
Lui, naguère si beau, qu'il est comique et laid!  
L'un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule,  
L'autre mime, en boitant, l'infirme qui volait!_

As Asya's eyes darted around the room, her voice shaking slightly over the bitter words, Darcy wondered if that's what they all were to her – just selfish, cruel, insensitive sailors? He, and his aunt, and Mr. Collins, and Charles Bingley – had they all caused her as much pain as she expressed in this poem?

_Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées  
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer;  
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,  
Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher._

And this was the best verse yet. For it spoke volumes about Miss Sapin; it embodied her so completely! This confidence in a misfit, this sense of grandeur coupled with inferiority – it was _her_. _She _was this exiled poet misunderstood and mistreated, and yet who knew her own worth was far above that of her captors. _She _was the fallen woman who hunted the tempest and mocked the archer, despite all odds.

Unconsciously, he began to applaud, even before the rest of the room realized that the poem had come to a close.

She pierced him with a questioning look.

And in response he only smiled.

The silence was soon broken by idle conversation. Lady Catherine asked Miss Sapin to play the pianoforte. Asya politely refused. Charlotte, at Collins' urging to please his grand patroness, took the seat instead.

Asya wondered quietly over to the window, and let her idle gaze scoop over the ornately ridiculous gardens of Rosings. She was feeling suddenly tired. Tired of Rosings, tired of Kent, tired of Collins, tired of Lady Catherine. Tired even of Richard and their mindless flirtations.

It had been fun, at first – flirting with the tall, attractive, and witty man. But the shallowness of their attraction was blatantly obvious. He wanted her for nothing more than a little shag. And even the perfectly smooth way in which he complimented her and flirted with her was evidence to the superficiality of his intentions. No man truly in love would flirt quite so smoothly.

It had been entertaining to watch Collins' simpering, and Lady Catherine's self-indulgent speeches. But taking amusement from other people's stupidity could only be pleasant for so long. Eventually, it became taxing and simply irritating.

Now she was tired, and wanted to get away. Away from Rosings, away from Kent... away from the tall, brooding, incomprehensible, frustratingly handsome man who now made his way to her window spot.

"Bravo, Miss Sapin. That recital was brilliant."

"Thank you." She made a move to turn away, but it seemed that he was intent on making conversation.

"I have never heard this poem before. Pray, enlighten me – who is the author?"

She looked him straight in the eye.

"Charles Baudelaire."

And she knew those magnificent green eyes of his well enough to notice the momentary darkness pass over them. And the smile of his mouth pressed into a tight line.

"That friend of yours," He stated bitterly, almost grounding the words through his teeth as he was reminded once again of his jealousy. And of her past. Of those other men who had held her in their arms, who had pressed kisses against her delicate jaw, the mesmerizing curve of her neck, her soft, pale bosom...

"You are friends with the author?" Asya and Darcy were both startled by those words pronounced by Lady Catherine. They had not realized that she had joined them.

"Y-yes," Asya stammered out, equally surprised by the lady's proximity as well as the unusual coldness of her eyes. Lady Catherine had never liked Miss Sapin, and Asya was all too aware of that. But never had she seen quite as much hatred in Her Ladyship's eyes.

"You are quite well connected, then, are you not?" Her Ladyship continued, with thinly veiled sarcasm. "The Russian Emperor, the French poet..."

"The Emperor?" Darcy repeated, confused.

"Ah yes, nephew, did you not know? Miss Sapin has been to the Winter Palace, and is personally acquainted with the Emperor."

Darcy's heart raced, his mind raged, as he processed this new piece of information.

Asya was acquainted with the Emperor back in Russia.

Asya was not a real lady. Asya was not a maiden – she was in fact a fallen woman.

Darcy shut his eyes tightly, and attempted to steady his breath, as he put these two facts together, and came to the only possible conclusion:

Asya was a courtesan.

_He was in love with a courtesan._

"Pray, excuse me," He bowed stiffly, and urgently left the room.

Asya followed him with her eyes, feeling annoyed in spite of herself. After all he had done, why did she still care about his opinions? Why did she still worry when he acted hot and cold with her?

Lady Catherine arched one eyebrow. She did not know why the knowledge of Miss Sapin's acquaintance with the Emperor upset her nephew so much. But she rejoiced that it did – somehow, she had managed to accomplish her purpose and draw Darcy away from Miss Sapin, even if only temporarily. What she had observed of her nephew's behavior over the past few days had unnerved her greatly. It was evident that he was at the very least strongly attracted to the undeserving Russian Miss.

But now there was hope. From Darcy's reaction to it, perhaps Miss Sapin's connection to the Emperor was not as positive as it had seemed. Indeed, perhaps the Russian Miss was not as perfect as she tried to portray herself... there could even be some ghastly secrets in her past.

Darcy collapsed in a chair in the adjacent room, but then stood back up immediately. He could not sit, he could not even stand still, in his anxious state. Instead, he began to pace feverishly.

He needed to process this new piece of information. He needed to come up with a new plan of action.

After some deliberation, he determined that the knowledge of Asya's past as a courtesan did not much alter the state of affairs. He had already known that she was not a virgin – it did not really matter whom she had slept with, or under what circumstances.

But the fact that the Emperor himself had shown interest in her sumptuous body – now that was something to be reckoned with. _'And I stupidly said that the position of _my _mistress was the most she could have! Ha, as if! She could easily have any monarch on the continent!' _He laughed bitterly at his own former naiveté.

No, if Miss Sapin looked for a man to support her, Darcy was only a meager contestant. But perhaps, maybe – if he offered her more?

He had already determined that he could not live without her – he did not even try to avoid her... now that he was expressing his admiration so openly, _after _she rejected his base proposition, was there any other course of action?

No, of course not. He would offer for her. Despite her past deeds in Alexander I's bed. Although the mere thought of them made him want to rage war against all of Russia.

Yes, he would offer for her – and immediately. She was a woman of the world; she would not wait for him.

He would have to act fast.

Walking in quick strides back to the drawing room, he saw Miss Sapin stepping out.

"Mr. Darcy," she greeted, somewhat uncertainly.

"Miss Sapin." He bowed deeply, and made his way quickly towards her.

"I was just making my way to the library to fetch a book," She explained, in response to the unworded question in his eyes.

"I will accompany you," He stated firmly, and began walking in step with her.

Asya was annoyed that rather than ask for permission, as was demanded by propriety, he simply decided to accompany her. But there was something in his manner that almost intimidated her, so she decided to remain silent.

Inside the library, Asya felt somewhat uneasy – alone with this imposing man, who confused her so, and produced in her such strong emotions of hatred at yet... attraction? So she picked the first book that came to her attention, and turned to head back.

She gasped lightly when her path was blocked but Mr. Darcy.

"Miss Sapin..." He whispered, huskily, coming far too close for her comfort. "Asya..." He murmured, with infinite tenderness, as he lowered his head so that his nose brushed against the soft tendrils of hair just above her forehead.

He breathed in deep, raveling in the smell of her hair. Every fiber of his body was alert and aroused, nearly pulsating with such aching, such desperate need. His jealousy, his love, his pain – all channeled into this one feeling of desire and longing.

He wanted to press her firmly against the wall, and kiss those lips of hers until she, too, would utter his name with reverence. But he willed himself the savor the moment, one little step at a time.

First the wisp of air imbued with the smell of her gorgeous hair.

Then, he raised his hand tenderly to cup her left cheek.

Then, he lowered himself slowly to kiss her –

Except it was at that moment that she suddenly bolted out of the room.

Darcy raked a hand through his dark curls, letting out a frustrated groan. _'By Jove! What on earth was I thinking? Why can't I think rationally – why can't I act properly – why do I have to be driven to this state by her?'_

Annoyed with Asya for foiling his delicious advances, and angry with himself for falling so far from the ideals of propriety he had striven to maintain his entire life, Darcy headed back to the drawing room.

As he walked back in, he saw that Richard had returned to the room and once again monopolized Miss Sapin's conversation.

Yes, he would have to act fast.


	20. Blatant Disrespect

She looked delightful.

Light, graceful, merry.

Every step accompanied with that little bounce. Every twirl accentuated with the swift and airy movement of her lavender dress. Every ray of the morning sun reflected so splendidly in her golden hair.

She looked delightful, and he could not take his eyes off of her.

Darcy let himself be lost in the magnificent image of _Her _for a moment longer, before dismounting from his horse and walking towards her in firm, long strides.

"Good morning, Miss Sapin." He bowed, then looked her straight in the eyes.

The only acknowledgement he received was a light nod.

And then they stood oddly, awkwardly, uncomfortably. Somewhat stiffly. Unsure.

She wanted to tell him off for the impropriety of almost kissing her the night before.

And he wanted to apologize for the same.

But then they caught each other's gaze, and remembered something: that they had kissed once before. And that it was _her _who had kissed _him _in that library at Netherfield Park what seemed like an eternity ago.

Darcy felt afloat with relief. There was no longer any need to apologize for his clumsiness. Instead of self-reproach at his complete loss of propriety, Darcy was now rewarded with the beautiful memory of her lips upon his, off their own accord.

And then he smiled.

Asya felt a tinge of nostalgia. She remembered the way she had kissed him. She remembered the way he had been: so inexperienced, so unsure, so tender, and so naïve. She recalled the way his soft, luscious lips felt under her own, as he surrendered to her impulsive kiss. As he surrendered to her. She could hardly believe that it had been the same man as the one who stood so stiffly before her now. Why was everything so very difference now?

And then she frowned.

'_It's no use – thinking of him in that way,'_

Asya shook her head almost ruefully, and continued on her walk.

Fitzwilliam followed her in silence. He noted the shoes she was wearing, white and so very petite, the bows on top matching her short white overcoat. And he wished it could be early autumn again, warm enough for her to take off her shoes and walk barefoot.

The way she stayed silent so stubbornly, and the way he was so lost for words, overwhelmed with her presence… it made him think of that walk near Netherfield Park. And how he wished he could go back there – where he could carry her in his arms.

Unconsciously, they both thought of how things could have been… should have been.

"I like this particular trail," Asya pronounced noncommittally. "I come here often in the mornings… on solitary walks."

It was a veiled hint, a quiet claim on the luscious trail. She thought that once he knew her preference for the walk, he would avoid it in future. After all, why would he want to see her any more than she did him?

But she was wrong. He was there early the following morning, almost as if awaiting her. And the morning after that too.

They did not speak, merely walked together in awkward silence all the way to the parsonage. Sometimes she would catch him staring at her intently, as if studying her, as if attempting to read her.

She gave up after two days. She abandoned her favorite trail. And at last she managed to get some peace. Although a part of her yearned to go back, to where she felt that he must be standing silently, awaiting her.

She managed not to see him for a full three days after that. And the disequilibrium of her person – the mood swings, the intermittent irritation and nostalgia, the occasional hastening of her heartbeat – finally ceased. But she thought of him, much to her own chagrin.

_Fitzwilliam Darcy_. Was that not the man she had dreamed about for years? And the real-life version surpassed all her dreams. Those thick brown curls – more luscious than she had ever imagined. Even now, when they were disheveled, too long, and appeared to be missing a patch: she still knew quite for certain that running her fingers through them would feel blissfully soft.

Those deep, large eyes that watched her so sternly. Those full, soft lips that –

'_No, I will not continue that thought! And yet –"_

He was a tall man, very well built. And she was experienced enough to note the occasional bulges in his form-fitting breeches on their solitary walks, or even at times in the Rosings Park drawing room. And somehow, Asya was sure that Mr. _Fitzwilliam Darcy _was as well-endowed as she had always fantasized him to be.

'_No! I will _not _think about that man's penis!' _

And yet how could she not? When every so often, in a fit of anger and sadness, she could not help but imagine what it would have been like to accept his proposal. Perhaps for only one night. What it would have been like to be the first woman to ever make love to this paragon of a male specimen…

She hated him for making her weak.

And yet was it hate that made her dress with care that evening before heading to Rosings Park?

A set of gorgeous white gold earrings with large sapphires dangling delicately next to her cheeks. Those cheeks raised and accentuated by an extra bit if blush.

Her hair let loose in luscious waves over her slender shoulders. Those shoulders hugged sumptuously by the lace of her dress.

And the dress!

Was it hate that made her dig through her wardrobe, and at last select the most sumptuous, the most scandalous dress at her disposal?

Dark, deep blue, strapless – under a layer of black lace that went all the way up to her neck, and descended in full-length sleeves to her miniature hands.

Charlotte gasped when she entered her friend's bedchamber to urge her to hasten, as Mr. Collins was quite uneasy about being late to a dinner at Rosings.

"Oh Asya! You look..." She could hardly find the words. "Magnificent."

Asya flashed her a brilliant smile. "Why, thank you, Charlotte." Then she gestured towards the bed. "Come, sit with me for a minute while I finish freshening up." And she turned back to her make-up.

Charlotte almost sat down. "I – I can't. Anastasia, pray do hurry up. We are late, you know. Mr. Collins is quite distressed."

"Oh, is he now?" Asya repeated half-attentively.

"Oh, do come down!" Charlotte implored, beginning to turn anxious herself. Her courtship with Mr. Collins had been growing increasingly uneasy, as Lady Catherine's general discontent was beginning to temper his own attachment to Charlotte in particular. She did not wish to get into another fight.

"Very well," Asya conceded with a smile and took her friend's arm as the girls approached the drawing room.

"You look lovely, Miss Anastasia," Sir Lucas complimented her graciously after customary greetings. "And you, Charlotte dearest, of course."

"Ah yes, Miss Sapin has outdone even herself this time! Delightful, magnificent! Such splendid attire is surely proper even for Rosings." Mr. Collins blabbered on, making Asya regret dressing up so much for nothing more than a simple dinner. "Charlotte, dear, why can't you follow your friend's example and wear something a little more handsome? That purple dress of yours really does nothing for your figure!"

Charlotte blanched. And the rest of the room went quiet.

Anastasia glanced back and forth between her friend and her potential fiancé. It was not the first time Mr. Collins had been uncouth or uncivil towards Charlotte, but never before had it crossed into such blatant disrespect.

Fighting back her tears, and wanting to break the awkward silence in which she could feel all the attention on her own self, Charlotte spoke haltingly:

"Shall we not depart? Or else we may be late."

And without waiting for her fiancé to offer his arm, she hastily left the house.

Asya shook her head, and followed stead, before Mr. Collins had a chance to exacerbate the insult by offering _her _his arm.

Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, a handsome gentleman of eight-and-twenty and one of the most sought after bachelors in the country, was meanwhile having trouble for the first time in over a decade with something as simple as his cravat. The damn thing was simply refusing to yield to his fumbling, trembling fingers.

He would see _her _again in a mere half-hour. After three whole days without that pleasure, during which he could not help but think that she had been _avoiding _him on her walks.

And given that monumental fact, how could his long, strong, perfectly-sculpted and usually agile fingers _not _tremble?

When at last he conquered the stubborn cravat and descended to the sitting room, she was already there.

Facing away from him, and wearing a deep blue dress that only covered half of her back. The other half was shielded by nothing more than decadent black lace and her golden hair. Ah, that was the worst -

She had left her hair down.

Just as he would always imagine it when he would visualize her in his lonely bed.

_'Damn that woman!' _He thought desperately as she turned, the front of her dress no less open than the back.

She approached, and actually smiled. And then extended her hand. And _that _was his undoing.

Because as he bent down to kiss it, he came face to face with the tops of her perfect breasts, again covered by nothing more than black lace.

_'Is she _trying _to torment me?'_

Apparently yes, she was.

Perhaps it was her way of paying him back. For the humiliation she suffered when he had insulted her with his proposition. For the frustration she felt when, on occasion, he would invade, unbidden, her thoughts and dreams. But she actually took _his _arm that night, and not Richard's, as they walked to the dining room, and seated herself next to _him_ for the during of dinner. And spoke to him. And smiled at him. And flirted with him.

_'Cruel woman!' _He repeated over and over again, incapable of any other thought. But even as he mentally berated her, every fiber of his being was ablaze with desire – for her, only her.

It was somewhere near the end of his barely touched dessert, that he felt a light touch descend on his knee. Her hand.

"Don't you agree, Darcy?" He heard his aunt ask. And blanched with the realization that he had absolutely no idea what she wanted him to agree _with._

Luckily, he was saved by Collins, who readily chimed in:

"Oh, _I _agree most wholeheartedly! Very wisely spoken, your Ladyship! A lady should always be conscious of how she is perceived – and should never appear _too _independent. It is up to her husband to make the important decisions. While for the lady herself, the main virtues are the ways in which she can delicately take care of her home. I think in a parson's wife these qualities are _especially _important. She should be soft-spoken, and gentle, and obedient. That is why I chose my sweet Charlotte – perhaps not as handsome as some other ladies, but I do believe that her plainness actually makes me _better _suited in such a case."

Asya felt her blood boil over as she watched all color leave Charlotte's cheeks. _'Poor girl!' _In a way, this is precisely what she had been hoping for when she suggested that Charlotte get to know Collins a bit better before committing to an engagement: that all his ludicrousness would be exposed. But to be thus humiliated in the middle of a dinner party! _'No, dear Charlotte does not deserve such insult!'_

And somehow at that moment, she remembered _her own_ humiliation and insult less than a month before, cause by a different man. She let her anger out at the culprit of her own misfortunes.

"Mr. Darcy, do you agree?" She asked with saccharine sweetness, and a coy smile. While her hand traveled upwards from his knee towards the center of his desire.

"I – um - " No full sentence could possibly be formed when he could feel _her _hand only six – five – four – three inches away from where no woman's hand had ever been. "Excuse me."

He stood abruptly, and quickly left the room.

_'Cruel woman!'_

Concentrating fully on leveling his breathing, Darcy did not notice when another person entered the drawing room into which he had retreated.

"Interesting dress she wore tonight," he heard his aunt pronounce coolly.

Darcy shook from surprise, and turned towards her.

"I beg your pardon?" He asked indifferently, gathering as much composure as he could.

"I am merely discussing Miss Sapin's elaborate gown," Lady Catherine shrugged. "It was very – how do they call it? Risqué."

"I am not familiar with ladies' fashion."

"Ah, but you must have noted her gown. You are a man, after all, nephew." There was a brief pause before she continued noncommittally: "I've made some inquiries, by the way. Asked a few of my acquaintances who have been to the Russian court in the last few years about this enchanting Miss Sapin."

Here, Darcy could no longer hide his interest: "And?"

"Or should I say _Mademoiselle de Nurois?_"

"What do you mean?" Darcy's heart was racing. Judging from the slyly satisfied smile on his aunt's face, the news could not be good.

"Wavy golden hair, large hazel eyes, petite, extremely beautiful," she pronounced the last two words as if they were an insult. "Disappeared some two or three months ago. There was only one such lady close to the Emperor. Mademoiselle de Nurois, a courtesan from France and most recently the Emperor's _particular _companion."

Darcy swallowed hard, and turned away.

"But I see that I am boring you with all this gossip – I shall return to my guests. Do join us shortly, nephew."

Darcy did not hear her leave.

He stood numbly, attempting with all his might not to believe his aunt's words. _'She is merely attempting to bad-mouth Miss Sapin! She must have noticed my regard for the lady, and realized that it would foil her own wish for me to marry Anne.'_

And yet, there was something about his aunt's words – about the unusually calm certainly in her voice – that made it difficult not to believe them.

When at last Darcy turned to where his aunt had stood, he saw several pieces of paper left carelessly on the side table, obviously there for him to notice. Gingerly, with anxious anticipation, he lifted them up and glanced through.

There, in the unmistakable hands of some of the most prominent English aristocracy – Ladies, Duchesses, a Baroness – was Miss Sapin's condemnation.

_Mademoiselle de Nurois_. Alexander I's mistress.

What he had dismissed a week before as merely a paranoid conjecture on his part turned out to be nothing less than the truth.

'_So I was right!' _Darcy thought bitterly, deriving absolutely no satisfaction from the proof of his own correct intuition.

He clenched his fists tight, and felt as if he were on fire. Images of the woman he loved – desired – adored – in the arms of the Russian monarch wrecking havoc in his over-taxed mind. Never had the normally cool and composed Fitzwilliam Darcy felt such overwhelming fury.

So he was right: she was nothing more than a courtesan. Even worth: an _imposter_. Nothing more than a common –

"Whore,"He grit out through his teeth.

But he instantly regretted it, as he remembered the look on her pained face when he had propositioned her. She had seemed back then to firmly believe that what he was offering her was somehow beneath what those other men had offered. She had seemed genuinely convinced that at least some of them had intended to marry her. Poor naïve, kind-hearted girl.

And as he began slowly to steady his breathing, Darcy reminded himself of all the reasons why he _loved _Miss Sapin: her kindness towards Jane, Charlotte, Bingley.

'_It would not do to let my desire overpower my love once again_,' He told himself sternly, and attempted to think rationally.

True, Miss Sapin was a mere courtesan, a fall woman with a fake identity, a small little slip of a girl who could never match his status, his wealth, or his impeccable reputation.

True, she could not give him _anything_. Even less than some plain, poor country miss, who could at least offer her virtue.

True, a match between the two of them _was _the most preposterous thing he had ever heard of, especially now that he had such unequivocal confirmation of her fallen status.

But could he live without her?

As if on cue, the place on his thigh where her hand had rested less than half hour before, burned with renewed desire.

"No,"he whispered quite determinedly. "I must have her!"

Yes, he would have her – and he would make an honest woman out of her. He would restore her reputation, he would give her everything while taking nothing in return. He would be her savior, her benefactor, her husband, her lover, her all. She would never again need to sell herself to the highest bidder. She would instead have a man who would love her, protect her, care for her.

Fitzwilliam Darcy at last smiled broadly, brightly, confidently.

The guests were, meanwhile, already departing form Rosings Park.

After her interlude with her nephew, which she hoped had accomplished all she desired – namely, to cure her virile nephew of his lust for the tempting Miss Sapin – Lady Catherine had no wish to further entertain. Charlotte, still mortified from her intended fiancé's slights and gaffes, was all too eager to leave. And Anastasia, deeply displeased with Darcy for departing so abruptly and never coming back – and even more dissatisfied with herself for touching him inappropriately and thus exposing herself to his shunning and ridicule – wanted nothing more than to travel as far from the infuriating man as possible.

"I often think it does one good to walk after a filling meal," Lady Catherine remarked airily, dismissing her guests with nothing more than a wave of her hand. It was the first time she did not offer them a carriage on their way back to the parsonage. But she quite frankly could not care less: now that she knew what she did about Miss Sapin, the girl posed no danger. As for the rest of the company – they were all nobodies.

"What brilliant insight, your Ladyship!" Collins chimed in, even though everyone knew that he absolutely detested walking. As the rest of the somewhat baffled and insulted company headed away from Rosings, he literally skipped over to Asya, leering quite obviously at the décolleté under her lace. "Miss Sapin, may I have the honor of escorting you?"

"I –" Asya was quite lost for words. _'Surely,' _she had thought, '_he cannot insult poor Charlotte _again_!' _She took a step back. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Collins. I must have misunderstood –of course, you meant that you shall escort Miss Lucas?" She hoped the hint was enough.

"Oh no, quite the opposite. I will get to spend enough time with dear Charlotte in years to come. But it will be rare that I will have an opportunity to spend time with such a truly remarkable, intelligent, and absolutely stunning lady…" And then he quite plainly grabbed her hand.

Mortified, Asya threw a half-questioning, half-apologetic look toward Charlotte, who, in an attempt to rescue what little she had left of her dignity, declared:

"Indeed, Mr. Collins is quite correct. For I actually wanted a few words with Papa." And taking her father's arm, with Maria on the other side, she hurried ahead of Asya and her formerly intended fiancé.

'_Perhaps Anastasia is right,' _she could not help but think. _'Can I truly suffer a lifetime of embarrassment with this man?' _

She drew a deep breath, and let it out in a wistful sigh. _'No, I cannot.'_


	21. The Hunsford Proposal

Christmas crept up unnoticed that year, when only a few days after the misfortunate party of scandalous dress and insulted Charlotte, Asya found herself once again seated in Rosings Park. She felt awkward, in the midst of a family celebration at which she was by no means welcome. She did not know how or why – but Lady Catherine's attempts at civility had ceased as abruptly as they had come. Having sent them out once without a carriage in the December chill, she seemed to see no necessity in sparing them the walk in any of their subsequent visits.

When Darcy was present, he would always intervene in some way. He would give a severe look to his aunt, and a half-pained one when no one was looking. And they would be taken back to the parsonage in either Her Ladyship's carriage or in one bearing the imposing Darcy crest.

Asya did not know which she hated more: the trough through the snow, or this unbidden charity from a man who despised her.

She hadn't spoken to him, nor he to her, since the time when she so stupidly placed her little hand on his muscular thigh. Asya Sapin, who rarely found herself lacking in decorum, shuddered to remember the inappropriateness of her own behavior. And so, she chose to forget. Both her own stupidity and the insufferable man who somehow never failed to provoke her.

And he seemed content enough to never address her either.

But every time she chanced a glance at his handsome face, she found his eyes trained intently on her own person. Sometimes he would regard her with an expression of drawn out pain; she could not help but think that it was at times when she would speak to Richard with a little too much enthusiasm. At others, the way he stared at her, would make her wonder if he even knew that his eyes were directed at her – so deep in thought, so concentrated, and so withdrawn he appeared to be. And at times, if she did not know better, she could almost be fooled that he looked at her with something akin to _tenderness_.

A toast after toast, and Asya barely touched her glass. She was feeling sick – here in the midst of a Christmas that was by far her worst. Spending a family holiday as far from _home _as she had ever been.

"I raise this toast to the most amazing woman I had ever encountered," Asya's head snapped up at those words from Collins. She was not expecting such a sensible recognition of his fiancée, from a man so lacking in sense. "When she came into my life, my entire existence lit up, gained a purpose. I could not be more eternally grateful. I am infinitely happy to spend this Christmas here, in the company of dear friends, and most importantly with _Her._" Asya was now staring wide-eyed at the speaking clergyman, and throwing sideways glances at Charlotte's blushing but by no means displeased face. "To my infinitely generous, intelligent, and perfect patroness. To her Ladyship, Catherine de Bourgh!"

'_Of course, how could I have been so naïve!' _Asya chastised herself mentally, as she shut her eyes tightly in disappointment. She then chanced a look at Charlotte, who was coping as best she could by pouring the glass of champagne straight into her dainty mouth. _'Poor Charlotte.'_

Collins' spectacle only added to Asya's already growing irritation, and she spent the remainder of the evening in a foul mood that was quite uncharacteristic of the usually cheerful Miss Sapin.

Even Richard's casual flirtation was irking her, as they stood together in the drawing room after dinner, while Charlotte entertained on the pianoforte. She half-listened to the charming man beside her, and nodded absent-mindedly a few times. All the while watching the brooding man who stood alone looking out of the window at the gently descending snowflakes.

As her own gaze followed his, Asya suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to be outside, out of Rosings, out with those beautiful snowflakes...

She hurriedly left the room. Without alerting anyone to her departure, Anastasia Sapin hastily exited into the outside winter chill, and feverishly ran through the snow.

She did not know where she was going. She was tired, spent, sick. She wanted out. Absentmindedly, she headed back towards the parsonage.

Her departure was not entirely unnoticed, however, and within seconds, a man raced in chase of her.

Fitzwilliam Darcy did not know why he went after her, except the bursting feeling within him that told him that he could no longer wait.

No, he was done with trying to catch the most opportune moment. In several days, he never managed to be alone with her. Until now.

And now was as good a time as any.

He caught up to her, and for a moment paused, beholding the beautiful sight of Miss Sapin, arms spread wide and hair flowing out of her careful coiffure, spinning in the white snow.

Asya stopped abruptly as she saw Fitzwilliam Darcy frantically heading towards her. She felt a sickening sense of deja vu.

"Miss Sapin," he stopped at last, his face so close that she could feel his heavy breaths on her cheeks. "I have thought long and hard; I have tried with all my might to suppress my feelings – those same feelings that had driven me to make you that offer in Hertforshire, and more. But it is all in vain. It cannot be fought. I _need _you. What I said back then was wrong and ungentlemanly, and I am sorry that I have not yet had a chance to apologize. I desire you – God forgive me, I do! - most desperately. But there is more. Miss Sapin, I love you. However unlikely that may seem, however preposterous – it is nonetheless true."

He spoke hastily, without stopping to think – letting it all flow out. And she could not interject a single word into his passionate speech.

"I wish to marry you. While your circumstances had prevented the formation of such intentions before, I have come to understand that I care for you more than for the rules of propriety. I have seen your merits as a _person, _not as a lady – I have observed your loyalty, your truthfulness, your kindness. And though you are not a maiden, I nonetheless respect and admire you."

He moved came closer still, and took her hands in his.

"Mr. Darcy – " She began, regaining herself from the shock of his words. But he smiled softly, and raised a finger to her rosy lips.

"No, please, Miss Sapin, do not say a word. I have no experience with these matters – I am already nervous. Do not distract me, as I am having a difficult enough time trying not to distract myself." And he laughed uneasily.

Then he spoke softer:

"I know everything, Miss Sapin. I know about Alexander I, about Mademoiselle de Nurois – "

"Who?"

He gave a bitter lopsided smile. "Mademoiselle de Nurois. The French courtesan and Alexander I's particular companion – your real identity."

Asya could only open her mouth and close it several times, so shocked she was. Her throat felt too dry to speak. "What?" She managed to let out at last, but it was only a hollow whisper.

He did not seem to hear her question, for he continued undeterred:

"I have thought it all through, and can assure you that it makes no difference to my feelings for you whatsoever. I am willing to accept your past, and help you mend your ways in future. I am sure you were only a misguided, naïve young girl – and that your character is truly untainted. When we are married, you will be associated with one of the noblest families in England, and no one would dare to question your reputation. You could start anew. You could reform. I could _help _you reform. You will never again have to sell your body; you will belong to a single man, who will care for you. You will be my wife – Mrs. _Darcy_."

He paused, but only briefly. "Of course, that dress you wore the other night," here he had the decency to blush, "you shall never again wear in public. You may keep it for..." His blush deepened considerably, and he finished very quietly: "for private occasions in your husband's company only."

Asya blinked several times, wondering if she was perhaps in a dream.

_'Is Fitzwilliam Darcy simultaneously proposing to me, accusing me, and preaching to me?' _She wondered through her daze.

Everything felt so surreal, that she decided to wait a little while before speaking, looking at him expectantly. But he seemed to be finished.

After several moments of silence, Darcy shifted uneasily, and asked: "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Will you not respond?"

Asya seemed to have regained enough of her mental faculties to feel the deafening anger begin to sink in. She pronounced with fake innocence veiling the venom: "Respond to what? I am afraid I did not here a _question_."

Darcy sighed. "My apologies." They did not sound sincere to Asya. "Here it goes: Miss Anastasia Sapin, will you do me the honor to consenting to be my wife?"

"You mean your charity case?"

"Pardon me?"

"Or your puppet?"

Her face was beginning to contort in rage.

"I do not have the pleasure of comprehending you, madam." He spoke calmly, bu there was an edge to his tone.

"Nor I you, sir. What perverse enjoyment has driven you to chase after me, then propose marriage while accusing me of being some French courtesan and speaking to me as if I am an errand child that you wish to reform – is _quite _beyond me."

Darcy's sigh sounded exasperated. "You can drop the pretense, madam. The numerous witnesses to your identity as Mlle de Nurois include some of the highest-ranked nobility in Europe. I _know _your circumstances. And the fact that I am willing to marry a woman of dubious background, who is not only not a maiden, but also masquerades around with a fake identity, is a testament of my deep love and respect for your person, Miss Sapin."

Asya sighed, then attempted to explain slowly, as if she were speaking to a stubborn child:

"Mr. Darcy, if you _truly _respected me as a person, then you would feel no need to even mention the social differences in our circumstances. Not to mention that if you loved and respected me, you would _trust _me enough not to believe every gossip you hear. The fact that you _still _choose to tell me that you marrying me is done against your better judgment, and as a great favor of your love – shows that you hold me as your inferior."

"But that is what you are, objectively speaking," Darcy countered obstinately, despite the resultant hardening of Miss Sapin's eyes.

Asya turned away from him, and attempted to reign in her anger. Then she spoke thoughtfully, almost as if to herself:

"First you offered me the place of your mistress, and now – that of your wife. You are probably the only man in the world who can manage to make those two proposals equally insulting."

"I do not see how that is an sensical comparison, madam." Darcy's voice was beginning to turn edgy. "I have already apologized for my earlier proposition, and have now made it up by offering to make an honest woman out of you."

"Oh no, Mr. Darcy, enough with the saint act," Asya countered, turning once again to face him. "For your real motive is quite simple: you wish to possess my body. When propositioning me in a base manner did not achieve that purpose, you have decided to go to the greater extent of proposing marriage. The end result is still the same: to have me as your possession. Only this way, you must pay a higher price for this possession, by tying yourself to me for life."

"What nonsense!" Darcy exclaimed. "I have come here – professing my love, offering myself to you. And yet you claim that I wish nothing more than to possess you."

"Offering yourself?" Asya repeated, with a half-smirk.

"Indeed."

"Is that truly what you thought you were doing?"

Darcy nodded dumbly, not understanding what she could possibly mean.

Asya laughed. "Oh, Mr. Darcy! But that is where you are so utterly mistaken. You have come here proposing to make me your wife – to take _me, _to assist _me, _to reform _me, _not to give_yourself_ to me!"

"Are they not one and the same, madam? We would each be tied to the other for the remainder of our lives."

"Aye. But the nature of those ties would be quite different. Is it not a custom in your country that after marriage, every one of the wife's possessions belongs technically to her husband?"

"Yes, but –"

"No buts, Mr. Darcy. It is strikingly clear. By marrying me, you would possess all that I have, including myself – while giving nothing in return."

"I would give you my name, my home, my love and protection."

"And which one of those would you not equally bestow upon your child – your sister – your ward – or your favorite horse?" Asya challenged heatedly.

"It is not the same…"

"Isn't it?"

He was silent for a few moments, attempting to come up with an argument, but knowing not what to say – sensing that there must be some fundamental difference between a wife and all those other positions she mentioned, yet not quite able to put his finger on it.

"So you see," Asya spoke quietly, taking his silence for acquiescence. "By marrying you, I would give you everything I have – every last farthing – yet receive nothing in return, apart from your condescending patronage."

"You would have a generous allowance," Darcy countered immediately.

"Don't you dare!" Asya bit her bottom lip in an effort to suppress her sudden anger. "Don't you _dare_ try and offer me 'a generous allowance'. Do you not remember that you offered me as much when you insulted me with the proposition of becoming your mistress? And now you likewise wish to purchase me as your wife?"

Her cheeks burned with anger; her shoulders trembled with overflowing emotion; her eyes prickled with unwanted tears. But she continued with determination:

"I told you this once, Mr. Darcy, and I repeat it now: _I will not be bought_. Not as your mistress, not as your wife – not as anything. If I ever marry a man, it would be as his _equal partner_, not as his chattel. And if marriage here means slavery – cushioned, rose-colored, privileged, but nonetheless _slavery_! – for the women, then I can promise you now that I shall die a spinster."

"You do not wish to be my wife?" Darcy asked with incredulity, and a tint of frustration.

"I do not wish to become property – neither yours, nor anyone else's. I do not wish to be helped or changed or reformed. I do not wish to be told which dress_ I can and cannot wear._"

Then she turned away from him, and whispered:

"You do not _truly _love me, sir."

Those words left her lips in barely a whisper, but somehow they felt heavy, meaningful, fateful. As if nothing else of what she was saying would matter if those last few words were not true.

She was turned away from him, so he could not see the involuntary tears that prickled out of her sparkling eyes. But he instantly knew. He saw the slight tilt of her head. He almost felt the light shakes of her shoulders. He thought he could hear her silent sobs.

The sight of his beloved crying made Darcy temporarily forget their argument. He took a hesitant step towards her.

"Are you alright, Miss Sapin?"

She took a few seconds to collect herself enough to respond in a semi-level tone:

"Yes, Mr. Darcy. I am fine."

"You seem distressed. Is there anything I can do? Anything I can get you – a glass of wine, perhaps?"

The casualness of his proposal irked Asya. _'How can he talk of a glass of wine when I feel like this? When he's reduced me to tears? After everything he has said? Does he not understand _anything_?_"

She turned around abruptly; her movements sharp half from anger, half from pain. She pierced him with her hazel eyes.

His breath caught at the sight: she was beautiful, and yet it hurt. Her slender shoulders, her golden curls – thinly covered with a veil of white snowflakes. And yet how he wished he could make her warm. Her eyes shining exquisitely with tears and passionate anger. And yet how he wished he could make her smile

"The only thing you can do for me, sir, is to leave me at once, and to never come into my sight again."

Darcy stepped back at once, the harshness of her voice cutting him like a slap. Without a word, he complied and granted Asya her wish.

He left the small parsonage trail, intending never to return. But not before casting one last look at her face, and etching her features into his memory. The tears running down her face, her puffy cheeks, her red swollen eyes. He wished she had never turned; for now he knew that the sight of her crying would haunt him always.


	22. Mademoiselle Pinault

She did not know how long it had been before she at last reached the parsonage door, walked in, and collapsed on the floor.

She was cold, tired, and numb. But she did not care. She had not even noticed that her fingers had grown stiff and blue, and that she could no longer feel them.

Because she could frankly no longer feel _anything_.

The tears that she had not bothered to rub off her cheeks added to the prickly iciness, but she refused to acknowledge them. She told herself that she would never again cry because of _that man._

She thought those two words with distaste.

With hatred.

With sadness, although she would never admit.

His careless words rang through her head, taunting:

"_Of course, that dress you wore the other night, you shall never again wear in public."_

What arrogance, what officiousness, what superiority!

"_To make an honest woman out of you."_

And he actually thought he was doing her a favor?

"_Mademoiselle de Nurois. The French courtesan and Alexander I's particular companion – your real identity."_

How that had hurt...

That he did not respect her, that he desired only her body, that he thought himself above her: all that she had already known. But that, on top of it all, he did not even trust her?

_Mademoiselle de Nurois_...

She repeated the name a few times, mulling it over, trying it out. "Mademoiselle de Nurois." She pronounced it aloud, letting it slide from her tongue. All the while imagining that woman's life, Asya could not help but think that it was at present much better than her own.

How she now wished to be that woman! A French courtesan with flirtations and infatuations. A carefree woman who used men as much as they used her. A sophisticated and experienced European beauty to whom Darcy's words would not cause a tad of pain.

She imagined herself as the glamorous French mademoiselle playing with the heart of an Emperor, twirling in a resplendent gown in the Winter Palace ballroom.

She imagined his gift, the magnificent twenty-carat diamond, adorning her sinuous neck.

She imagined being admired, hated, and gossiped about, on a royal hunting party right in the presence of the Empress herself –

Anastasia Sapin opened her eyes slowly; they felt incredibly heavy. The light blinded her, and she shut them back, tightly.

"Asya?" Charlotte asked hesitantly, seeing her friend stir for the first time in days.

The only response she received was a grunt. But at least it was something – four days after finding Asya collapsed on the floor of the Hunsford parsonage drawing room, this was the first sign of life that Charlotte had seen from her dear friend.

She had been attending to her friend almost constantly. After Collins' display at the Rosings Christmas dinner, she knew that she could not marry that man. But what truly put an insurmountable rift between them was the fact that as Asya lay there, neither dead nor alive, for days on end – he _still _seemed more interested in listening to her Ladyship discuss efficient usage of cupboard space than ensuring that all possible assistance be given to his ailing guest.

Richard was considerably more useful, and came to ask about Asya's health almost every day, though never staying for more than half an hour.

Darcy, on the other hand, seemed to spare no effort in procuring the best of care for Miss Sapin. He sped into town as soon as the news of her illness reached Rosings, and returned less than two days later – not having slept a wink – with a pair of London's best physicians. When she did not seem to respond even to the best of their efforts, he absolutely insisted – to Charlotte's utter consternation and Sir Lucas's soft disapprobation – on watching over her through the night.

Charlotte Lucas was by no means a stupid girl. She understood Mr. Darcy's attentions for what they were, and watched him most carefully. But even if she had thought before that the gentleman admired her friend, she never expected _this _much devotion – either from him or from anyone else. The fact that having not rested for even a moment, disheveled and red-eyed, he stayed up yet another night, completely immobile next to her friend's bedside, allowing himself only a single movement: to stroke her cheek so tenderly, so reverently, that one would think she were made of the finest crystal.

The next morning, he somehow managed to gather enough energy to rush around the house doing everything possible to ensure the lady's recovery. His placed cold compresses to reduce her fever, monitored her heartbeat, diligently spoon fed water into her parched and lifeless lips.

His efforts paid off when on the fourth day after her collapse, Asya's eyes fluttered open.

"Asya?" It was Charlotte who spoke the first word, Darcy's mouth still dry from breathless apprehension.

The girl they were both watching intently closed her eyes again, squirming them shut. But her breathing was level now, her cheeks regaining their color. It was clear that she would live and get well.

Mr. Darcy hurriedly left the room.

_'Never come into my sight again.' _He remembered her words; and the least he could do was to obey them.

Charlotte was so preoccupied with her reviving friend, that she did not notice the gentleman's departure until much later. She did not know what to make of it all – his endless efforts and then the sudden disappearance – but it was clear that something had passed between Fitzwilliam Darcy and Anastasia Sapin. Remembering her friend's urging back in Hertfortshire never to mention that man's name, Charlotte was not one to pry into something that so obviously was none of her business.

She focused instead on assisting Asya with her recovery. Another few days, and Anastasia appeared to be back to her usual self, except those occasional moments of some deep, tormented expression clouding her beautiful face.

"Charlotte," Asya addressed her friend one evening after dinner, somewhat hesitantly. "Charlotte, I believe I shall leave."

Miss Lucas looked up. "What do you mean, dear?"

"I've been here long enough; I think I've had enough of Kent. This Sunday, I shall make my way to London." She paused for a moment, then spoke sadly: "I will miss you, dear friend. But I wish you the best of happiness."

"So you think I will remain in Kent?" Charlotte asked thoughtfully.

"Was that not your intension?"

"It _was_... but..." She sighed. "I think I shall return to Hertfortshire with Mama and Papa. You are correct, we have remained here long enough. In fact, I had been thinking of asking Papa to leave as soon as you get better."

"And Mr. Collins?" Asya asked, probingly, attempting to keep the jubilant hope out of her voice. _'Could it be?'_

Charlotte laughed humourlessly. "Oh, please don't speak to me of _that _creature. You were right all along, Asya." Then she hung her head. "I guess I shall never marry after all. But life as a spinster would still be better than life as Mrs de Bourgh's personal pet."

Asya flung her arms around Charlotte, unable to contain her joy, and began placing kisses all over her friend's cheeks. "Oh Charlotte, my sweetest, dearest Charlotte! I _knew _you were a clever girl! I am so proud of you, Charlotte! And the way you said it – 'her personal pet' – you are so witty, my Charlotte! I am so happy for you!"

Only when her onslaught of mirth subsided somewhat, did Asya notice the small tears trailing their way down those cheeks she was kissing. "Charlotte, what is it, Charlotte?"

"I had – I had hoped, Asya! I thought I could... find... a husband. A man who would love me. I do not wish to die an old maid, Asya! To live my whole life in Lucas Lodge!"

Asya shook her head softly. "You shall not die an old maid, Charlotte. You are a beautiful girl, silly! A great, smart, kind, and beautiful girl. Men would be all fools if not one of them knew how to love you. Don't go back to Lucas Lodge, Charlotte! Come with me."

Charlotte shook her head ruefully. "And do what, Asya? Don't you understand – I would be as useless with you in London as with Papa in Hertforshire. No one will want Charlotte Lucas."

Something in that last sentence sparked Asya's mind into action, and she suddenly knew exactly what to do – not only for Charlotte, but for herself. _Mademoiselle de Nurois._

"Then don't _be _Charlotte Lucas, Charlotte! Become... oh, I don't know! You can be anyone you want."

"I – I do not believe I comprehend your meaning, Anastasia," Charlotte replied warily, taking aback by the sudden almost-delirious glint in her friend's eyes.

Asya was now pacing agitatedly, so excited she was with her idea. This was the way – for Charlotte to get out of her bland, boring life; and for Asya to become that nonchalant French seductress who could not care less about Mr. Darcy's insulting words.

"We could become French aristocrats visiting London, sophisticated European beauties with mysterious backgrounds. The talk of the _ton. Femmes fatales._"

"Asya, you are speaking nonsense. What if an acquaintance sees us? It would be a scandal!" Charlotte was quite appalled.

"There is no need for anyone to recognize us, dear. That is what _disguise _is for."

Miss Lucas did not believe her friend, and watched with apprehension as Asya hurried into her room, mumbling something excitedly about "colored contacts".

It was not until the next morning, that Charlotte Lucas was surprised to hear that a lady had come on a morning call.

The name – Giselle Pinault – did not ring a bell, and neither did the slender dark-haired beauty whom the butler led into the room.

The lady's manner of walking was familiar, and Charlotte wondered briefly in amazement whether this was her friend's fantastic disguise. But the moment she looked into the woman's cold blue eyes – so very far from Asya's warm hazel – she knew for sure that this could not be her friend.

They exchanged pleasantries, and Charlotte was just beginning to ask – as politely as she possibly could – why this magnificent stranger was paying her a visit, when the lady broke into sparkling laughter so reminiscent of her dear Asya that poor Charlotte wondered briefly whether she might be hallucinating.

"See, see, I was right, Charlotte! Even _you _cannot recognize me!" These words were spoken in what was most certainly Miss Sapin's voice – all trace of the lower, more nasal French accents completely gone. And yet the eyes that sparked so merrily remained blue.

"Asya?" Charlotte asked quietly, hesitantly.

"Indeed! So you see, it _is _possible! Anything is possible, Charlotte!" And grabbing both Charlotte's hands, she began to twirl merrily, almost giddily. "We need now only to complete your disguise, and we can head to London immediately... oh what fun we will have! Come, come with me – let me make you into the most sensual lady the _ton _has ever seen."

Charlotte swallowed nervously. "And what would _I _be, Asya?"

Without even so much as a moment of hesitation, Asya retorted: "Why, Veronique du Bois, the youngest daughter of Le Compte du Bois of Champagne."

"You are out of your senses. I cannot even speak French."

Anastasia scrunched up her pretty nose. "Hm... Very well. Veronica Fairfax, an _English _aristocrat, and daughter of the notorious Baron Fairfax, who spent his years traveling – including France, where you met me..." She thought for a moment. "I got it! We met in France, at my family's estate, shortly after your father passed away and left you all of his inheritance – and now I came to visit _you _in the extremely fancy townhouse you are temporarily renting in London, while searching for some suitable grand estate to purchase in... Derbyshire?"

Charlotte shook her head ruefully. "However wonderful you are, Asya – at coming up with these plans as well as altering your appearance so completely – I still do not believe this could work. We don't have any money!"

Asya shrugged. "I have two thousand pounds. That will be enough to start. Of course, we will need the very best house London has to offer – to host the finest balls and the most sophisticated soirées in all of England!"

"And you think two thousand will be enough?" Charlotte quipped skeptically.

Asya laughed. "The key, my dear, is to have _starting _capital. Money attracts money – the universal truth of this world. If you have a bit of money and some brains, you'll have no trouble making it double again and again." She spoke from her experience with finance in a world so far away – but she now understood without a doubt that the same basic principles applied in the peculiar century where she was only now waking up, becoming alive, turning everything to her own amusement. Yes, perhaps she was a woman in the 19th century. But even on that, she could capitalize. If she had no other way to do business than with her feminine charms – then so be it. She was a fallen women in the eyes of this world anyway – Mr. Darcy had made _that _perfectly clear – so why not use that to her own advantage?

"Asya, I am not sure I... understand." Charlotte was still not convinced. She was baffled, confused, disoriented. But she no longer doubted her friend's sanity. The gorgeous Giselle Pinault – with those luscious chestnut curls, crystal-clear blue eyes, slender waste, high cheekbones, and scarlet lips – was proof enough of Anastasia Sapin's incredible, magical even, talents. Yes, Mademoiselle Pinault was by far the most enthralling woman Charlotte had ever beheld – if possible, even more beautiful than Miss Sapin.

Asya stopped her excited pacing, and stood before her friend, piercing her with blue eyes that now held only seriousness and sincerity. "Do you trust me, Charlotte?"

Charlotte could not do anything but nod.

Asya smiled softly. "Then come with me, dear friend. And I promise that you will marry, and marry well. If I cannot do anything else, I will at least endeavor to do this much: you shall have a dowry of no less than five thousand pounds within a year."

At this solemn vow, Charlotte gasped, but did not have a chance to protest. For she was swiftly dragged into Miss Sapin's bedchamber, where she was soon transformed into not quite beautiful, but nonetheless pleasingly striking Miss Fairfax.

With intriguing red hair coupled with luminous green eyes, Charlotte Lucas nearly fainted when she saw her reflection. For the first time in her life, she was something other than boring and ordinary. For the first time in her life, she was actually _striking_.

For her part, Asya was extremely proud of her work. And tremendously grateful to whatever higher being ensured that when she was teleported to this strange world, she had her set of colored contacts in her miniature handbag.

A few days later, on Sunday as agreed, having received Sir Lucas's blessing, packed, and resumed their fantastic disguises, the two young ladies headed for London. Each silently marveling at how _free _she finally felt.


	23. The Gentlemen of London

When Sir Jared Morrison walked into the chic jewelry shop on First Avenue on a sunny Saturday morning, he was most decidedly in a hurry. Lord Franklin must have been waiting for him at their club for half an hour already. Perhaps he should postpone this silly jewelry purchase and head straight there?

But no, that would not do. Valerie Dreyden, his newest mistress, was beginning to grow tepid, complaining of his lack of attention. She had reason to complain, too – he had not been to see her for two weeks, and then showed up for a mere half hour, only to take his pleasure and vanish again. Valerie was a feisty little thing – just the way he liked them – and would not stand for neglect. He needed to make amends. Pronto. A showy diamond tiara would be just the thing. And he must buy it before meeting her for dinner – which left absolutely no time except now, before heading to the club.

With a sigh, Jared headed straight to the diamond case. He knew the shop like the back of his hand; his mistresses all had expensive tastes.

But on his well formed trajectory towards the tiaras, something caught his attention. A stunning brunette was bent over a case with diamond pendants. Her pert, perfectly shaped bottom was sticking out slightly, highlighting a most pleasing figure. Jared entertained for a moment the thought of making the acquaintance of this delightful lady, but no: he was already late.

Just then, the lady in question stood, and chanced to turn precisely in his direction, her large crystal blue eyes framed by the most luscious black lashes regarding him half-innocently, half-curiously.

And that was that: even Sir Jared Morrison, the Don Juan of London, could not boast having ever seen, much less bedded, a woman as lovely as this.

Straightening out his hair in what he fancied was an inconspicuous and even seemingly careless manner, Jared now directed himself towards the pendants. When he found himself next to the intriguing lady, who by now had returned to the study of diamonds rather than his own person, Jared immediately noted the large, magnificent pendant she was regarding. With quickness of an expert well versed in purchase of such delicate trinkets, Jared immediately estimated the diamond in question to weigh no less than ten carats and to cost no less than a thousand pounds. Sir Morrison's thick eye brows came together in thought; was it worth it?

One more look at the lady – and yes, it most certainly was. Those soft chestnut curls, that slender waist, that luscious derrière, and those large blue eyes... his heart was racing already, his palms sweating with excitement, and some other parts of his anatomy equally affected. He'd be damned if he did not have this jewel before the end of the month!

"Serge," he called authoritatively to the shop keeper. "I would like that pendant there, please. And hurry, I am running late."

"Of course, Sir Morrison, sir," the short middle-aged man named Serge replied with a broad grin. A purchase such as this one did not come every morning!

"Monsieur, wait, monsieur," the delightful lady called, a tint of anxiousness coloring her sultry French tones. _'A __Frenchwoman!' _Jared noted with delight, inwardly smiling at having correctly divined which stone had captured her attention, and thus now having that attention so fully under his control.

No one acknowledged the lady's appellation. With a huff of frustration, the woman grabbed Serge's arm.

"I am speaking to you, Monsieur! Will you not at least do me the courtesy of an acknowledgement?"

"I apologize, madam," the man replied in an entirely unapologetic tone. "But I have a very important client, who is on a tight schedule. Let me call my assistant to help you instead."

He then waived to a lanky boy of about sixteen. That did not appear to satisfy the indignant Frenchwoman.

"Pardon, Monsieur, but there will be no need. I shall not be conducting any business with a store such as this." And she brusquely headed to the door. But not without turning back and throwing a most cold and disdainful look at Jared Morrison. "Where _I _come from, we have a _democracy_. And every customer is treated with respect. But I can see that that is not the case here. Some big _lord _or another can simply walk in and take the stone that _I _was about to purchase, without so much as an apology."

Sir Morrison was positively delighted. What a temper, what passion! And that look of hatred that she was throwing him – he could see the endless potential as he would transform that look into an equally charged look of love.

"Madame," he called after her, putting on his most charming smile."Madame, please, do allow me to offer at least an apology. I was not aware that you were interested in this particular stone."

The lady huffed indignantly. "Of course you were not, Monsieur. Because being as grand and mighty as you are, you could not be bothered to look at anyone around you." She then turned around and continued towards the door.

"Wait, Madame, I beg of you!" In three swift strides, he easily caught on to her, and took her hand firmly into his.

"You do me great injustice, Madame, if you think me so lacking in taste as to not spare a look to someone as lovely as _you_," He whispered seductively as soon as he had her brilliant eyes back on his person.

To Sir Morrison's chagrin, the lady abruptly withdrew her hand, and pronounced coldly: "I do not care for your overly intimate tone, Monsieur. You have done enough harm by grabbing the stone I liked right out of my nose. S'il vour plait, do not add to that injury by offending me with your flirtations."

She then turned to leave. But no, he could not let her go so easily.

"I had no intention of offending you, madam! Pray, forgive my uncouth manner." He then took her hand once again firmly in his, this time bending over it and bestowing a most proper kiss. "Please, allow me to apologize for my appalling behavior. I would be most grateful if you gave me a chance to correct this awful impression you must now have of my country. And to show just how sorry I truly feel, please allow me to return the stone to you – as a gift."

The lady's cheeks notably reddened. "Monsieur! That is scandalous – I – no, I absolutely refuse to accept any gifts from strangers such as yourself. You must have a very poor impression of me indeed if you think that I am _that _kind of lady..."

"No, no," Jared hurried to correct her. "I did not mean as a gift in that sense – pardon me, madam. More of a... retribution... of sorts. For acting so improperly and taking the stone away from you. I think it would be only fair to return it to you in such a manner. Please, you will not deny me a chance to show you that English gentlemen _do _have _some _manners?"

And he looked as her so sweetly, so pleasingly, that the lady reluctantly consented. With a smile, she took the small package, and dropped a curtsy.

"Very well, Monsieur, I will give your country another chance. I bid you good day."

Sir Morrison bowed deeply. "Good day to you too, Madame. Au revoir, I hope."

She merely smiled.

"You will," he began hesitantly, adopting a tone of uncertainty and even a tint of anxiety; after all, he did not wish to appear presumptuous – she was clearly not fond of that in a man. "You will allow me to call on you, I should hope? That is to say – I would be most... grateful... to further your acquaintance."

"Very well," She consented indifferently, and passed him a small silver-tinted card. "Here is my card. Please refrain from calling outside of the... propriety hours."

"Naturally. I thank you, Madame." And with another bow, he finally let her leave.

* * *

The hustle and bustle of London at once terrified and excited Veronica Fairfax nee Charlotte Lucas.

She could not help but stare at all the magnificent carriages and stately homes that she encountered as she walked back towards the equally magnificent mansion that Asya – that silly, irresponsible, fantastically-minded Asya! - rented for them. The home that, Charlotte was sure, they could not possibly afford with Asya's two thousand pounds for more than some ten short months.

Charlotte knew that this was sheer madness. But somehow, she could not help but trust her friend. And, for the time being, to do Asya's bidding and play along.

It was this playing along that drove her, the quiet and proper Charlotte Lucas, to arrive at the door step of the Duke of Cromford with a missive from his university friend – Sir Lucas.

The night Charlotte and Asya had informed Sir Lucas of their decision to travel to London, he consented surprisingly readily – albeit sadly – to their plan. He knew, after all, that in London his Charlotte was much more likely to find a husband more _suitable _than that atrocious Mr. Collins. Especially under the direction of a friend such as Miss Sapin, whose considerable charms even the elderly Sir Lucas could not help but recognize. He asked his daughter to deliver a piece of correspondence to a university friend of his, the Duke of Cromford. Secretly, he hoped that initiating a meeting between Charlotte and the Duke might assist her in becoming more readily admitted in the _ton_.

It was with wistful regret that Charlotte relayed this information to Asya, for as Veronica Fairfax, she unfortunately could not do her father's bidding. To her considerable surprise, Asya begged to differ. Simply, easily, almost frivolously, Anastasia immediately invented a story: Veronica had met Charlotte at a train station, while the former was on her way to London with Giselle Pinault and the latter, having changed her mind – was traveling with her friend Miss Sapin to Moscow. The four young ladies found many similarities among each other, and took an instant liking to one another. After spending a day together, they separated with a tearful goodbye, but not before Charlotte begged Veronica to deliver her father's letter with the appropriate explanation.

Such was Asya's simple plan. After all, an acquaintance with a man of such importance as the Duke could never hurt.

Charlotte, appalled, at first refused. She was, after all, a horrible liar and an even worse actress. But gradually, guilt began to take over. Asya had given so much – all of her not entirely negligible capital – to secure this adventure for them. And what had Charlotte done in return?

Four days later, Veronica Fairfax made a call on the Duke of Cromford and his wife, Lady Ambrosia.

And now, on her way back, she marveled at how easily it had gone. The Duke and his wife both welcomed her warmly, and regaled her with stories of Charlotte as a small girl. Somehow, she was fairly certain that if an invitation was issued to the Duke for a dinner at the temporary Fairfax House, it would almost definitely be accepted.

* * *

When Samuel Bradley walked into the chic jewelry shop on Main Street on a sunny Saturday afternoon, he was most decidedly in quandary. Never before had be stepped into such an establishment with the express purpose of buying a piece of feminine jewelry.

He was, unfortunately, not so completely ignorant of the ways of the world as to not know the reasons why _other _unmarried men frequented such shops. These diamonds and rubies were the price they paid for their high-maintenance mistresses. And Samuel Bradley – an entirely too proper lad of two-and-twenty who so stupidly thought that a diamond tiara might be the appropriate present for his little sister's coming out ball – blushed profusely at the mere thought of someone mistaking _him _for one of _those _men. With fearful apprehension, he glanced around him. Then pierced the shop keeper with a cold glare, imagining that the innocuous man was suspecting _him_, the young Mr. Bradley, of searching for a gift for his mistress.

Ordering himself to overcome his dread and be a man, Samuel walked up to the tiara case in quick strides, affecting confidence that he did not truly feel.

"I would like to see your best diamond tiaras, sir. It must be impeccable, as a gift for someone very important – my _sister_." He placed great emphasis on that last word.

"Of course, sir," the shop keeper replied, and busied himself looking through the case. Samuel imagined a tint of disbelief and sarcasm in the older man's voice, which irked him.

Once the shopkeeper put in front of him three of the shop's most exquisite and expensive tiaras, Samuel quickly picked one almost at random, wishing to exit this uncomfortable place as soon as could be. But as soon as he paid for the item and the shop keeper began wrapping the tiara, a lovely brunette, whom he had not noticed standing right next to him spoke softly in nasal French tones:

"Oh that was the one!" She sighed so wistfully, that Samuel could not help but gaze at her with genuine concern. "Sir," She called to the shop kepper. "That tiara, the one you just packed away... do you... peut-etre... have another one just like that?"

"No, madam," the man replied curtly. "All of our items are entirely unique."

"Oh non! That is so... so.. oh dommage!" Her voice sounded so strained that Samuel wondered if she was holding back a sob. "I... I had been looking... just that design... my grandmere... she had one like that, but it was taken out of France – during the revolution... And I cannot find it. If at least... I could have had... one that reminded me of it. Ma grandmere... she died... oh..." And here she did break into quiet sobs, turning away from the two men. "Pardon, monsieurs. I did not mean to make a display. It just – it hurts," She whispered the last words so softly, so plaintively, that Samuel Bradley found himself feeling the uncharacteristic wish to extend his hand, and stroke her luscious hair.

Silence fell over the trio, until the lady bowed her head, as if in embarrassment, and headed for the door. Samuel felt his heart constrict, and found that he simply could not let her go.

"Madame!" He grabbed the package and rushed outside, just barely catching on to her before she stepped into an ornate carriage. "Madame, I wish to apologize – I did not know... the tiara..." He did not know what to say.

"Pray, Monsieur, there is no need for an apology on your side at all. It is I who acted so out of line with that little display in the shop. Please, do forgive my... emotional... state." She attempted a smile, which looked so weak, so half-hearted, so sad, that he could not help but act on impulse:

"I want you to have it," he said before he could even think over his words, and hurriedly placed the small package into her hands. Then, overcome with embarrassment at his foolish forwardness, and unable to bare her inevitable reproach, he began nearly running away.

Just a few minutes later, however, her carriage caught on with him, and she insisted on thanking the man who returned to her what may have been a priceless family heirloom – or at the very least, a treasured reminder of something that had been possessed by an adored grandmother. She spoke with such sweetness, and smiled so radiantly, and insisted on calling him her guarding angel... that for the remainder of the day, Samuel Bradley could not help but think back to their short encounter with tenderness. Caressing with his right thumb the small silvery card she had placed in his hand before taking her leave, he wondered absentmindedly whether tomorrow morning would be too soon to call.

* * *

Charlotte Lucas had been agitatedly pacing the foyer of her large temporary home for nearly an hour before she finally heard her friend arrive. Over that hour, she had been nearly driven to distraction with worry and all sorts of unpleasant thoughts. Oh Asya, that thoughtless, extravagant Asya!

"Asya!" She rushed to meet her friend, who came in with two small packages and a radiant smile on her face.

"Oh Charlotte, my dear, how much I have missed you! Your call has gone well, I hope?" And she awaited her friend's answer with unaffected concern.

"Yes, yes, it was absolutely fine. Such a lovely, wonderful couple! I truly enjoyed conversing with them." Thinking back to the Duke of Cromford and Lady Ambrosia distracted Charlotte, for a moment, from her distress.

"Excellent, excellent. So if we were to invite them for dinner, I presume they will accept? Charmed as they were with the delightful Miss Fiarfax?" And Asya gave her friend a playful wink.

"Yes, I do so hope that they will." Then, as her anxiety came back to the forefront of Charlotte's mind, she had to come to the point at once: "But Asya, what is this?" Here she waved her arms around herself in exasperation.

"What is what, my dear?"

"This," pointing at the magnificent marble stature in the center of the foyer. "That," indicating the spectacular grand piano in the corner of the sitting room. "And that," looking towards a rather famous painting hung on the dining room's most prominent wall.

"Just some trinkets to help our home look more grand, my dear," Asya replied simply, unconcerned.

"Asya!" Charlotte gasped. "How can you speak of it thus? As if it is nothing! As if this did not just cost us a fortune! Tell me at once, Asya, how much did this cost?"

Asya scrunched up her pretty nose in thought. "The pianoforte, the painting, and the statue all together? Sixteen hundred pounds, I believe."

Charlotte could not respond immediately, for fear of hyperventilation. "Sixteen hundred pounds? Are you out of your mind? That is nearly all of our money, Asya! How will we pay the rent for more than two months now? And what, pray tell me, will we live on? Oh Asya, you silly thing! Why? Why, why, why – when this house was fully furnished as it were?"

"Why? Well, that is simple, my dear – the furniture in this house, albeit lovely, was not quite _fully _up to par for a house that shall host the most famous soirées of the _ton_. We needed a suitably impressive pianoforte to serve as backdrop to our lively selves while entertaining, don't you think? And the statue and painting will immediately give us some credence, especially since it is already known by half of London's aristocrats that these two items were purchased at the auction by the mysterious – but obviously must be quite wealthy – Miss Fairfax!"

Charlotte sighed, exasperated. "I appreciate all that you are doing, Asya, but... you must not... no, you _cannot_... waste your money so. How will we live? It's all well and dandy. But even if we host the best soirée in all of Europe, what good will it do? When in six or seven weeks, we will not have a farthing left to us. After all, we have absolutely no source of income!"

Asya smiled slyly. "And _that_ is where you are mistaken, my dear. Come take a look." And she carefully unpacked the first of two packages, revealing the most stunning diamond tiara Charlotte had ever seen.

Miss Lucas did not get a chance to do any more than gasp, before Asya unmasked the second package: a pendant with a single diamond that was – by Jove! – no less than ten carats.

"A-Asya... what is this? Where is it from?"

"This," Asya pointed to the pendant, "is from Sir Jared Morrison, the Master of the Calysper estate and a notable member of Parliament. And this," here she fingered the tiara, "is courtesy of Mr. Samuel Bradley, the eldest son of the Earl of Somerset."

"How – why – what?"

Asya laughed. "Over the past few days, my dear, I have studied from a distance all the members of the _ton__ – _servants' gossip turns out to be quite the informative source. And today, hanging around some of the jewelry stores, spotted these two worthy gentlemen coming in. With Lord Morrison, it was simple – he is notorious for his womanizing ways. So I knew that _he_would come to _me_, which he did – grabbing precisely the stone that I was pretending to admire. At the end, he got to give it to me as a present and feel that _he _tricked _me_. Ha!" She then paused for a minute, collecting her thoughts. "With Samuel, it was a more delicate matter. The boy is only twenty-two, and as proper as they get. Shopping for a gift for his sister, it turns out. Here I had to come to _him_, playing the pity story: that the tiara he had chosen was exactly like the one that my poor grandmother used to wear before the revolution. Worked like magic."

Charlotte was speechless for several seconds. And then she began to laugh. "Oh Asya, you are unreal! I do not know whether to approve of your methods or not – I have never heard anything like it!"

"Well, my dear, it hardly matters whether you approve. What's important is that each of these men will, I am sure, pay us a call within a week at most. That, coupled with your lovely Duke of Cromford and Lady Ambrosia, will make quite a satisfactory housewarming party."

With that, she gave Charlotte a wink, and seated herself to practice at the offending pianoforte. After all, even if Miss Sapin could not play much beyond the Moonlight Sonata, _Mlle __Pinault _absolutely had to learn.


	24. En Voyage!

"Brother?" Georgiana Darcy stepped into her older sibling's study hesitantly, wincing slightly at the disordered state of that room, to which she had, by now, become sadly accustomed.

"Yes, my dear?" His reply came out constricted and somber, even though he had obviously attempted to imbue it with some gentleness. But the smile he forced onto his lips bore far too strong a resemblance to a pained grimace.

Georgiana noted the opened book laying carelessly on his knees, and wondered sardonically whether he had managed to read any more than two words of it. She marveled at how cynical she had become over the past month. That one single month in which _she_was forced to act as the responsible adult. Because her brother was far too incapacitated to perform even the simplest tasks required by politeness and propriety.

Almost a month before, she was thrilled at his unexpected arrival at Pemberley, and rushed to thank him for the pianoforte he had ordered for her. She had just arrived at the estate herself a mere two weeks prior, during his trip to Kent to visit their aunt, on which – much to her happiness – she had not been expected to join him. Having missed all of his prior weeks of sulking at Pemberley because of a trip to visit a school friend, Georgiana found herself entirely unprepared for what she met on her brother's return from Rosings.

Fitzwilliam Darcy had always been reserved, but in her company he would be all that was amiable and good. Never had she seen him so disinterested, so sullen, so... depressed. The bags under his eyes and the languid tiredness in his step perturbed her greatly. But it was the way he appeared to almost look past her, and could not summon more than a half-hearted smile at their greeting – that was what truly worried her.

For several days, Georgiana Darcy lived in agony. What had she done wrong to displease her brother so greatly and to cause him such distress? Could she really be such a disappointment to him that he would take no pleasure from the sight of her?

It was about a week after Fitzwilliam's homecoming that the Lord of Matlock paid them a visit. And did not stay for more than ten minutes, since Fitzwilliam Darcy was most evidently not in the mood to entertain _any _guest, even a cherished relation.

This was the first event to alert Georgiana that perhaps she was not the root cause of her brother's distress. She began to observe him more carefully. And over the weeks that followed, his loving sister noted Fitzwilliam Darcy's thoughtful idleness, his unseeing gaze, his increasingly many empty bottles of brandy, his propensity to sit for hours on end in his study with a book in his lap or a pen in his hand. Yet not a single page would be turned, nor a single word written. Then at times he would pace agitatedly, or ride out in ungodly hours of the morning, not to return until the dead of night. Utterly spent, exhausted, frozen, disheveled. He would retire to bed immediately, and remain in his bedchamber until late the next day. But when she would see him at dinner, he would look at if he had not had a single wink of sleep.

Yes, Georgiana Darcy was most decidedly not the culprit for her brother's misery. Yet that hardly brought her much comfort. For she could not for all the world divine the true cause of his pain. And it hurt her greatly to be unable to help.

She stepped further into his study, and seated herself on the ottoman next to his desk. "There is a gentleman to see you, brother." She spoke quietly, as if afraid of his displeasure. For three weeks, since Lord Matlock's visit, her brother had not seen a soul apart form herself and the Pemberley staff.

Fitzwilliam huffed frustratedly. "Please inform him that I am not taking visitors at the moment."

"Um, brother," Georgiana began hesitantly. "He comes from King George III. I think this might be quite important."

With a resigned sigh, Fitzwilliam rose from his chair. "Very well, I shall attend to him then."

And he left the room. Georgiana frowned as she contemplated the slight slumping of her brother's shoulders. He had always had such impeccable posture! Such proud, handsome demeanor. Yet now he looked defeated, and almost small.

She awaited his return in his study, absentmindedly bringing it to some semblance of order.

If Fitziwilliam was displeased by her interference in his private chaos, he did not show it upon his return. Instead, he strolled to the window, and surprisingly offered information without prompting:

"They invited me to join the Parliament."

Georgiana gasped. "Does that mean you shall be a Lord, brother?" For the first time in weeks, she felt something akin to excitement.

"No," he answered simply.

"But why? I do not understand..."

"I have declined the invitation." He turned towards her, and regarded her thoughtfully.

Georgiana swallowed audibly, fighting back the frustrated tears that threatened to erupt, and turned away. "I see." She was about to exit.

"Georgie," her brother's tone was soft and gentle, and she could hear the tears in his own voice. He put an arm on her shoulder, and turned her softly towards him. "I am so sorry, Georgie."

At the tenderness of his tone, she broke into tears, and buried her head in his chest. "Oh brother, brother... what is wrong, my dearest brother?"

"I am so sorry, Georgie," he repeated, now crying as well. "I have neglected you so! I am the worst of guardians. In my own despair, I have forgotten all about you, my precious child."

She looked up at him then, and the questions in her eyes could not go unanswered.

"I fell in love, Georgie," he breathed out, wincing at the almost physical pain that those words brought to him. "I am in love, and she despises me in return."

"But brother, how can she despise you? Any lady would be lucky to have you!"

"She has reason enough to despise me, believe me, my little one. She is so... different. and I have been so... stupid. Please, _please _do not question me further on that score. Do not make me recount my own errors. Please, child!"

She nodded obediently.

"I will try to be better, Goergie. I shall not neglect you any longer." He vowed. "I cannot take the Lordship, I am afraid, for I feel indisposed to be in society. I – I just can't." There was so much pain in his words that she could not help but say:

"I understand, Fitzwilliam."

"And I know it is not fair to you, my cricket. I know you will be sixteen in a month, and that I owe you a coming out ball. But... I … I just can't. I'm so sorry." He turned his head away from her, but the sob that escaped his throat pained her greatly. She absolutely had to reassure him.

"Oh, _that _is quite alright, brother! I have no wish to come out and have to learn to play the games of society. The time of W-Wickham is still far too fresh in my mind for me to venture out into the world of courting and love. I think I would very much like to postpone it for another year."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh yes," she squeezed his hand affectionately. "If only I can have my old loving brother back, I shall be quite content."

Her words brought a renewed wave of guilt to Fitzwilliam, and he hugged her tightly, murmuring over and over again just how sorry he was. Then he searched her face with a gaze that appeared to hold something akin to hope for the first time since his arrival.

"Goergie, what do you say to a trip to the continent? We could go to France or Italy or Spain – or wherever you wish! Perhaps a change of scenery may do some good to us both."

"I would like that very much, Fitzwilliam." And the joy so unmistakably displayed by her broad grin made the corners of his own mouth rise into the first genuine smile in over four weeks.

But that ghost of a smile disappeared as fast as it came, as he recalled the true reason for his determination to quite England. _Her _words still rang in his head, still stung as much now as they had when first uttered:

"_Never come into my sight again."_

Yes, he would be better off in Tuscany or Province.


	25. Those Fashionable Soirees

Mr. Samuel Bradley was beaming. His youthful features were radiant with unsuppressed delight.

She was wearing _his _tiara! No, no, not his – hers. The one that had belonged to her grandmother, and that was now rightfully restored to her beautiful head. The one that _he _had restored, in an uncharacteristically impulsive gesture of benevolent heroism.

No matter how many times he reminded himself that she was merely sporting _her _family's heirloom, he could not overcome the feeling of prideful joy at the knowledge that if it weren't for him, she could not wear it all. If it weren't for him, her grandmother's precious ornament would not touch her luscious chestnut curls, and would not reflect the dancing lights in her eyes, as she smiled at all assembled – but most importantly, as she smiled at _him_.

Asya felt the young man's gaze on her, and gifted him with the widest smile she could muster. A stirring of guilt somewhere deep inside her was almost allowed to emerge. Almost. She could not effort such a frivolous feeling as guilt. She was a woman on a mission.

So far, everything was going splendidly, according to plan. Even surpassing expectations.

It had been a mere ten days since Lord Morrison and Mr. Bradley had called on her – the morning immediately after their respective meetings – bumping awkwardly into each other in Miss Fairfax's elegant sitting room. Somehow, Asya had managed to diffuse the situation, and the two men (as utterly unlike as any two men could be!) cohabitated the small space for the good hour and a half most cordially. Surprising even herself with an unexpected bout of artistic finesse, Anastasia Sapin had successfully entertained simultanesouly an idealistic youth and a jaded hedonist... all the while making each man feel as the uncontested center of her attention. While Samuel Bradley basked in the warmth of her grateful smiles and words of praise (yes, he was still her guardian angel!), Jared Morrison wore a smug smirk from the flirtatious batting of her long black lashes.

They left just as they had come, only even more so: entranced.

Lady Ambrosia conveniently chose the following morning to call on the amiable Miss Fairfax. And Asya had put on such a charming display of wronged innocence as the long-suffering French child pursued by the revolution – that no one could fault her Ladyship one or two tears.

And then of course their first soirée – what a success it had been! A small, intimate party. Sir Morrison brought his good friend, Lord Franklin, as leering and vulgar as himself. Mr. Bradley was accompanied by a youth several years his senior, the poetically serious Senior DellaStella, a son of a wealthy Italian Count. The Duke of Cromford and Lady Ambrosia were delighted to attend, accompanied by their two eldest children: the Viscount of Malloy and Lady Elena.

And now, Asya proudly presided over her first _real _party. Word had spread fast about the notoriously beautiful, refined, and intellectual French mademoiselle visiting her friend, an elegant English lady. The stories of abuse that Mademoiselle Pinault had suffered at the hands of the revolutionaries on the continent only added to the fascination that was spreading about this young lady. And after some slight introductions at the opera, she was met with increasing numbers of callers over the past three mornings.

And now, here they all were. Well, not _all_, not yet. She had not been introduced at court. But nobility excluded, she could really boast that the sitting room was now hosting _la crème de la crème_.

In her diamond tiara accentuated by a simple yet compellingly elegant gown of the finest cream silk_, _Asya regally made the rounds. She grinned when she spotted Earl of Matlock in the corner of the parlor. He was one of the most respected gentlemen of the _ton_, and she was truly delighted that he could attend.

As Asya neared the elderly gentleman for a greeting, she noticed a tall man speaking earnestly with him. A strange feeling of unease suddenly gripped her. But before our heroine had a chance to give in to her anxiety and make a hasty escape, the Earl noted her presence:

"Ah, Mademoiselle Pinault – chamed to see you again. What a delightful party!" He smiled fondly at her. Then turned to the man on his side. Following his gaze after her deep curtsey, Asya came face to face with Richard Fitzwilliam.

She felt the chill run down her spine. This was her first encounter with someone from her... previous life. _'Please don't recognize me, please don't recognize me, please don't recognize me.'_

"My younger son, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam. Richard, allow me to introduce the illustrous Giselle Pinault. Mademoiselle, I sincerely hope you do not mind my bringing Richard uninvited."

"Not at all, milord," Asya responded whilst dropping a curtsey to the introduced son. If her voice quivered slightly, neither man noticed. "Colonel, it is a pleasure."

"Enchante, Mademoiselle," Richard answered gallantly, bending over her hand and placing a chaste yet playful kiss atop. _'Father was right – this woman is truly magnificent! And that French accent – I feel that I shall melt... I wonder if she is also as witty as everyone claims.' _

Before conversarion could proceed any further, Asya's attention was commandeered by the Duke of Saffron, who was hoping she might join his side in a political debate against the stubborn Sir Morrison.

As she was walking away, Asya overheard the Earl of Matlock speak the one name she never wished to hear again.

"Have you seen Darcy recently, Richard? I am very worried about him."

Against her better judgment, Asya slowed her step, intentionally catching what she could of their conversation.

"So am I, father."

"I tried calling on him, you know, about two weeks ago. He would not even see me in. Something awful must be going on with the poor boy, and I am at my wits' end with what I could do to help."

"I know exactly what you mean, father. My visits seem to be as unwelcome to him as yours, and several missives have gone unanswered. Dear Georgiana, at last, has taken pity on me. She sent a letter only three days ago, saying that they are away to France in two weeks."

"Well, that might well be for the best. Perhaps a change of scenery might lift his spirits," Earl of Matlock remarked thoughtfully.

Asya did not quite make it to where the Lord of Saffron was debating with Sir Morrison. Instead, she felt her knees give out, and reclined against the nearest pillar.

He was away to France.

_'For the best, of course for the best!' _She proclaimed mentally, and tried repeating it several times for effect.

And yet, the surge of frustration that sent bile to her throat and a sharp pang of pain to her chest would not subside.

_'All the way to France? Why? Could he no longer stomach being in the same country as me?'_

Even as she thought that, Anastasia Sapin knew quite well that she was being ridiculous. Was she not the one who had demanded in no uncertain terms that he should never come into her sight again? He was merely complying with her wishes.

_'Whilst lifting his spirits with pretty scenery and French mademoiselles?' _She thought sardonically, and refused to listen to the voice of reason at the back of her head, which reminded her that Mr. Darcy was still a virgin, never kissed by any lips other than hers. Instead, she chose to fuel her bitterness: _'Perhaps there he will meet the _real _Mademoiselle de Nerois!'_

And yet _of course _she knew that it was all for the best. She could not stomach meeting him at London the way she had just encountered Richard – even that she had barely survived with equanimity. She had asked Fitzwilliam Darcy to never come into her sight again, and she had fully meant it.

It just hurt to know that he would forsake her quite so easily.

Attempting to regain some of her prior composure, Asya put on her most luminous smile, and called softly for attention. It did not take much to have all focus on her; half the men had been watching her, mesmerized, the entirety of the evening.

"Thank you all for coming here tonight. It has been such a delightful evening!" She smiled half demurely, half invitingly. The artlessness of her words pleased those who wanted to see a pure creature. The sultriness of her French tones appealed to those who craved the sensual woman. A round of applause sounded through the room, accompanied by warm exclamations.

"Miss Fairfax and I would be honored – no, overjoyed! - if you would all grace us with your presence in our home once more. For St. Valentine's Ball."

A murmur of surprise passed through the room. "You are hosting a Valentine's Ball?" Someone inquired.

"Indeed, yes, we are! Exactly fifteen days from now, on February 14th, we shall all celebrate" Asya exclaimed excitedly, and sent a silent look in Charlotte's direction, beseeching her to please play along. "And not a conventional ball it shall be, but a modern one. Instead of traditional dance cards and gentlemen asking ladies, let us have sweet valentines! Bring lots of gifts – little trinkets of sorts – for those whom you fancy, wrapped up in pretty pink. And for each token, if your favor is similarly returned, you shall dance with your Valentine!"

Her unorthodox suggestion was immediately taken with approval from all.

The Lady Ambrosias of the _ton_ found it absolutely charming – thoughts of sweet innocent valentines, how youthful and romantic!

The likes of Sir Morrison smirked, imagining the expensive gifts they would purchase for Miss Sapin, perhaps in time securing more than a dance.

And had there been an impartial, sarcastic observer in the room, he would perhaps have noted how very well Miss Sapin had played that trick. The Ball of Valentines – as it would come to be called – would be the talk of the _ton _for months to come. And the enchanting hostess's boudoir would boast many a new tiara to show for it.

But that was all to come. For now, Asya was only too happy to keep her mind from wandering to that unfortunate train of thought that she was only too careful not to follow, and to which she had come so dangerously close only fifteen minutes before.


	26. Intrigues of the Ton

Asya bid a most tender, cheerful goodbye to Lady Morrison, her new confidante and best friend, and stepped hurriedly into the carriage. Once inside, she reclined against the wall with a heavy sigh, spent.

Time was running out. Lady Catherine Morrison was her dear friend, always delighting in Asya's company. But no matter how hard she tried, Asya could not, as yet, make the Lady discuss her husband. And that husband, oh god, that husband! For weeks, Asya had been most steadfastly avoiding any interaction alone with Lord Morrison. She was invariably pleasing to him in company, even flirtatious enough not to rouse his suspicion, but she vigilantly avoided any situation that might force her into a discussion with him. It had been evident from the very beginning that he only ever wanted one thing – and now, numerous extravagant gifts later, he was becoming impatient.

Asya cursed herself for her own rashness. In entering such an acquaintance with a man as powerful as Lord Morrison, in unreservedly accepting his diamonds and rubies, she knew from the start that she was placing herself in danger. She knew, and yet she continued. For without great risk, there could be no great reward.

And the rewards were great indeed! His "little trinket" for her at the Valentine's Ball had been nothing short of a lovely cottage worth two thousand pounds. Asya shuddered as she imagined the benefits that he imagined such a cottage would hold for _himself _– the illicit visits to the countryside and her thighs.

Knowing the danger, Asya had been careful from the very beginning. Not one of Jared Morrison's presents remained with her. They were all dealt away with in a most circumspect, stealthy manner. She suffered a fair loss on every gemstone, and received only eighteen hundred pounds for the cottage. But at the end, there was no trace between these trinkets of his and herself. That way, when Lord Morrison finally does explode – and this she knew to be soon – she might have a chance at defending her innocence.

This chance would be greatly increased with his wife's cooperation. The wife who still held, by some fortunate work of providence (or rather Lady Morrison's late father), the majority of the Morrison's wealth in her trust. The wife whom Lord Morrison could not – would not – afford to lose.

If only she would open up to Asya! It was obvious that Jared kept numerous mistresses before, and Asya could tell from the occasional look of sadness or disgust how much that had bothered Catherine. As soon as that dear woman would let Asya fully into that part of her heart, Asya could begin her plan. She was close, she knew – but not yet.

Asya remained deep in thought until at last she arrived in their townhouse, and was greeted by Charlotte's hushed but frantic whisper:

"Asya, where have you been? You've been gone so long, and we have guests!"

"I was just visiting Catherine," Asya replied nonchalantly, passing her fox-fur muff to the maid. It was a very cold March. "Who called on us?"

"Well, there was the Duke of Saffron earlier in the morning, but he left after half an hour, some important parliamentary business to attend. He wanted your advice, you know. I have no idea on what, of course, but some matter of politics... You seem so well-versed in it, Asya." Charlotte drew a breath of air to interrupt her own rant. "Now Mr. Bradley is here with his friend, Signor DellaStella. They have been awaiting you for an hour!"

Asya laughed. "I am sure you've kept them both well-amused."

Charlotte just shook her head, and followed her friend into the sitting room.

"Mademoiselle Pinault!" Samuel Bradley was the first to hurry towards her, bowing over her hand with a becoming blush. The man was so purely adorable, that Asya wondered whether she might soon be in danger of feeling too much for him.

"Piacere come sempre, Mademoiselle," Alfonso DellaStella's voice rang low and inviting, with unmistakable hints of sophistication and desire. Asya swallowed visibly. It had been half a year since she had landed in this old-fashioned world – half a year with no intercourse, without so much as a kiss, apart from that _mistake _with Mr. Darcy. Signor DellaStella was beginning to test her restraint.

"Lovely to see you, gentlemen," she at last greeted pleasantly. "I must apologize for keeping you waiting. It is, after all, such a lovely day! Would you perhaps fancy a walk?"

Her smile was so disarming, that they would have likely agreed even if it had been icy rain.

The four young people strolled down the fashionable London street. Asya was careful not to accept either gentleman's arm, lest she inadvertently indicate a preference. She instead walked with Charlotte, the two men following closely behind, all four engaging in lively conversation.

A gig stopped near them, and stepping out, the man greeted:

"Miss Fairfax, Mademoiselle Pinault!" The Viscount of Mallory was delighted to see the two ladies who had recently become so dear not only to his parents, but, though he had not yet admitted as much even to himself, one of whom was becoming increasingly dear to him.

"Mother sends her regards," he mentioned hurriedly, bowing in greeting. Asya smiled when she noted that his eyes had not left Charlotte the entire time. _Maybe, just maybe, all will be well._

She had managed to accumulate a fortune over the past two months, exceeding even her wildest dreams. At over eleven thousand pounds – and growing by day – she could now easily arrange the dowry of five thousand pounds that she had promised Charlotte. Modest, of course, nothing to some of the other ladies of the _ton_. But nonetheless respectable. With a sum such as that, Charlotte could afford to marry for love. And who might be a better candidate for her love than the good, honorable, steady, and serious Viscount of Mallory? The fact that his father, the Duke of Cromford, was both well-established and wealthy was an added bonus.

Asya smirked as she noticed Charlotte's blush when the Viscount bent over the hand. _I dare say my friend is well on her way to falling in love! And the man is by no means indifferent_.

With such pleasant thoughts, Asya passed a most enjoyable afternoon, and managed to completely forget about her own worries over the dark and demanding Lord Morrison.

Until, that is, she returned home to find a sumptuous bouquet of dark red roses.

"_Please do me the honor of meeting me tomorrow at 10PM at the east gate of the park. JM"_

Asya shuddered. The time had come. Lord Morrison's patience was coming to the end, and the resolution was nearing. Not tomorrow, of course, she would come up with some sort of excuse. Nor the day after, perhaps. But some day soon.

The man will demand repayment for the thousands of pounds he had thrown away on her. And he was far too powerful to be dealt with lightly. No, she had to be careful.

Asya was nervously pacing the length of her sitting room, when the arrival of the Duke Carl of Saffron was announced. Forcing herself to look cheerful, Asya greeted the Duke brightly:

"Your Grace! What a pleasure it is to see you."

The older gentleman bent gallantly over her hand. "Likewise, Mademoiselle. How I wish I had caught you earlier this morning! Lord Sarrey was absolutely impossible today, and your guidance would have been much appreciated."

Asya laughed prettily. "Oh, your Grace, do not flatter me so. We both know you are far wiser than I – and that is why _you _are the politician, and not I."

"Only because you are a woman," the Duke replied somberly, piercing Asya with a look of earnest admiration. "I think we are both aware that your intelligence is more than sufficient, and thwarted only by the unfortunate incidence of your gender."

To this, Asya chose not to respond, only smiled noncommittally. Instead prompting the Duke to elaborate on his latest parliamentary frustrations. Asya's acquaintance with His Grace was probably her most intellectually rewarding pursuit since she had been transported to the 19th century. The Duke afforded her a glimpse into the intrigue in contemporary politics that she found enthralling. And to be completely honest, her vanity was satisfied with the knowledge that someone as renowned and powerful as the Duke of Saffron found _her _worthy of being his political advisor. She noted also that their professional relationship did much to help her standing in society. She was now being looked up to as uncommonly smart, and not just a physical beauty.

"So you see, my dear Giselle, Sarrey was being completely unreasonable! And yet those oafs could not even tell, without it being spelled out word for word. I could not help but inwardly chuckle at how _you _would have laughed at Sarrey's absurd self-contradictions."

"I still think you give me too much credit, Carl," Asya demured.

"But not at all! And that whole mess I allowed myself to get into in this debate... why, I'm sure _you _could have avoided the whole thing admirably, and with charming grace."

Here Asya was struck by an unexpected idea. Looking down sadly, she mumbled: "On the contrary, your Grace, I cannot stay out of petty intrigue even in my personal life, so I would have no chance in politics." Here she managed to even feign a reluctant tear.

The elderly Duke was at once kneeling beside her. "Giselle, dear sweet Giselle, what is the matter? Please, if you are at liberty to tell me, do so."

"I -" sob, "I would really not wish to – to trouble you, sir."

"Nonsense! For two months already, I have done nothing but trouble you with my political pursuits, and not once have you demanded anything of me in return. You have been the best confidante and advisor – please, allow me to repay at least in part my debt. Confide in me."

Asya now allowed the tears to flow unrestrained from her eyes. "It's Sir Morrison..."

"That rascal!" The Duke exclaimed, jumping to his feet and beginning to pace. The Duke and the Lord had been at odds for years, mostly politically. Lord Morrison's reputation as a rake was also repulsive to the reserved, proper Duke, who had hardly even looked at a lady since his beloved wife's passing six years prior. In her troubles with Lord Morrison, Asya could not have picked a better ally than the Duke of Saffron. The two men's animosity assured her of the Duke's unwavering support. Stopping before her, Carl inquired: "What has he done? Tell me at once!"

With a trembling hand, Asya passed him the note she had received only a few short hours before.

The Duke's face paled. "He is demanding your company at night, alone? How dare he!"

After some more feverish pacing, he knelt again in front of the weeping mademoiselle. "I will call him out. Don't worry, Giselle, he will not be able to hurt you." And the elderly gentleman attempted awkwardly to grant her some small measure of comfort by stroking her chestnut curls with his rough hand, in an almost fatherly gesture.

Asya sobbed. "No, please, no. I couldn't – Catherine... she is my dearest friend. It would hurt her so much if you killed him. And you – oh god – I could not think of anything happening to you, your Grace! And on account of me..." Here she allowed herself to cry straight into her companion's shoulder.

The Duke softened somewhat at the sight of the sweet girl's despair. "Now, now, do not worry yourself so. We will figure something out, my sweet. No harm will come to you, I assure you."

"But what will we do, your Grace?" And she looked up at him with such a childish, naïve, vulnerable display of faith, that the Duke's touched heart led him to embrace her most fondly.

"We will expose him, condemn him, he will not be able to intimidate you again – or any other young lady, for that matter."

Asya looked a little scared. "But what if in exposing him, I become likewise exposed to censure, sir? It is such a strange society here... what if they think I somehow" – here an indignant, unbelieving swallow – "somehow _encouraged_ that rake?"

"No! I would not allow that to be said of you, Mademoiselle! It is plentifully obvious that you have been nothing more than politely courteous to that gentleman. It is he that has a reputation of seduction, not you. I will always vouch for you, Giselle, and I am sure so will many others."

At this solemn vow, Asya at last felt some measure of peace. She had played dangerously with a very powerful man – for despite his "reputation", as the Duke termed it, Lord Morrison was connected and well-regarded. But she had equally powerful allies. With the Lord of Saffron taking her side, she might be able to deflect the drama away from herself. The political adversary between the two men was well known throughout the _ton_, and in bringing the two of them together as rivals, she might yet be able to redirect the conflict away from her own self, passing it as just another strife between the two powerful gentlemen.

With renewed optimism, she told the Duke of her thoughts on how to best expose Lord Morrison. Tomorrow, she would pay Catherine a visit for a much more frank talk than their usual discussions of ribbons and lace.


End file.
